


An Eternity of This

by Mandy_the_O



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M, POV Original Character, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-11 20:27:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 30,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4451042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandy_the_O/pseuds/Mandy_the_O
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A broken man and a haunted woman and the coming together of their pasts:  Long after Christine left Erik, a divorced noblewoman hiding from her former husband takes up a post at the Opera as a seamstress.  Genevieve and the Opera Ghost are drawn together, but the relationship between them is far from romantic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is currently over sixty chapters long, with forty-nine chapters that I've edited for posting. I'll get the forty-nine chapters up as quickly as I can. Also, if you notice a slight change in writing style...I began this story ten years ago. I wrote almost all of it over a year's time in 2005, then Real Life intruded, work, health problems, one massive case of writer's block...it sat neglected a LONG time. I began working on it again just a few weeks ago and the writer I am now doesn't always agree with the writer I was ten years ago. You may have read AEoT before years ago, or this could be a new story for you. I apologize for any spelling/grammatical errors in earlier chapters and any inconsistencies. Thank you for reading!

**Prologue**

It had been the scandal that everyone had talked about for months:

_Young opera ingenue disappears from stage as Opera_ _goes  
up in flames and rushes to the altar with a young nobleman._

The tragedy of the fallen chandelier and the shock of Christine Daae's sudden elopement were on the lips of Paris gossip mongers in every parlor, at every cafe, and during every dinner party. Rumors and speculation on the sordid details flew through the fashionable parts of town and even through the less savory sectors of the city. It was all anyone could think about. The Opera Populaire had closed its doors for nearly a year. The Vicomte de Chagny and his young bride promptly sailed for England. And the whispers of a hideous, obsessed musician that had fallen in love with a beautiful face and voice were no longer debated amongst the vacationing Opera staff. 'That night' would remain fresh in their minds...for as long as it was a worthy tid-bit of prime gossip.

In time, as great scandals do, it faded and was forgotten. The Opera Populaire reopened its doors. A new Season began. The ballet rats traipsed down the halls with less trepidation than they once did. Everyone forgot the Phantom of the Opera and his tragic love story.

But some stories are not meant to be forgotten..

Nor should they...


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

When the Opera reopened its doors, some of the former employees did not return. Some had found other work during the hiatus in the fall and decided to stay where they were at. Others had been afraid to return; there were some whose memories of those horrific hours had not faded and they chose to pursue a life outside of the Opera.

One such person was Madame Anna Toudore, a seamstress and second only to the head costumer, Madame Lafevre. She hadn't been able to put from her mind that night when she'd been neatly tossed aside by a very tall man, cloaked and masked, towing a reluctant Christine Daae behind him after the crash of the chandelier. In that moment, his golden eyes had lit upon hers. Such eyes filled with anger, hatred, and a mad, naked lust. She'd vowed never to set foot inside the Opera house again.

Or so I was told by the little seamstresses that were to be my new assistants. They sat in the cafe of the Opera over coffee and cakes, their eyes wide and brows wiggling. Marie and Jeanette Roue were sisters and had been employed at the theatre since they were fifteen. They were now nineteen and had amassed an impressive collection of torrid and scandalous memories which they had no trouble sharing with others. The two girls, who were identical except for the cut of their bobbing blonde curls, were fond lovers of gossip and were currently regaling me with tales of the fateful night Madame Toudore chose to abandon her post.

"Oooh, yes, Madame never came back! She told us that very night that she'd never walk the halls of the Opera again without seeing his eyes."

" _Murder_. Madame siad murder was in his eyes and she would as soon cut off her right hand then encounter the ghost again."

"Yes, for a while, we were convinced he had murdered Christine and her lover in a jealous rage..."

"But then, just a few days later, there they were taking vows and hying off to England."

"But, he could have killed them very easily I'm sure."

"Oh, yes, he killed Joseph Buquet!"

I nodded and made the appropriate shocked noises when necessary, but inwardly I was wincing. If these two girls were to be my assistants, how was I to ever get anything done? Since I had been introduced to the Roue twins over an hour ago, they had done nothing but regale me with every tidbit of unneccesary and irreverant information on the so-called Opera Ghost. A man, perhaps, who still lived beneath the Opera, but very unlikely to have any bearing at all upon my new post as second head costumer, unless he wanted a new costume with which to terrorize silly young woman like the two in front of me.

As Jeanette was just ready to dive into a discussion of the ghost's lustful urges, I quickly cleared my throat and raised a brow. It was time I took my seamstresses in hand.

"Yes, well, as much as I enjoyed your explaining to me why I should never sit in Box Five or stand beneath the chandelier, I can assure you I will never do those things due to the fact that I,  _we_ , will be absolutely overcome with our duties. There is a new Season starting in only four weeks with two operas that will need all new costumes and many more that will need alterations done. I suggest that you introduce me to Madame Lafevere as soon as possible so that we may take advantage of this day and begin," I paused, smiling serenely, "early."

Both of the chits watched open mouthed as I stood, shaking out my skirts. Inwardly grinning, I knew I had suceeded in making them realize that though I was only eleven years older than themselves and far younger than the absent Madame Toudore, I was not going to be an errant mistress. Their days of ninnying about were over.

"Yes, Madame Devereaux," they spoke in unison, hurrying to stand and bustle out the door ahead of me.

I followed, head high. It felt nice to be in command again.

My meeting with my new employers, Msrs. Andre and Firmin had gone without a hitch. My references were stirling, a long list of nobles for whom I had designed, created, and fitted with the finest gowns, suits, cloaks, and other garments. The two creations I'd brought in , one an elegant evening ball gown and the other, a gentleman's evening suit, complete with an opera cloak and hat, had impressed them. When they'd asked if I had been in command of others, I'd assured them I'd been in the posistion of mistess of a household for almost ten years, they'd raised a brow, but had given me the post anyway.

I did not deceive myself into believing that Madame Lefevre, a woman, would be so easily acquiesing.

That afternoon, after Marie and Jeanette had led me to the costume room and the mirrored fitting room connected, I'd sat waiting for Madame Lefevre, outwardly calm and serene, inwardly frantic with worry. This was an Opera, but I was a member of the staff who might have to sit in on meetings with wealthy patrons when they needed an account for the costuming budget. There was a scandal attached to my name; Madame might not want to have such a person in her staff.

My fear was betrayed only by the rapid beating at the base of the throat. I glanced at the mirror which covered an entire wall and assessed my person.

The dress I wore was a medium brown, plain with its high, rounded neckline that fell just below my collar bone and sleeves gathered at my wrists, its only concession to fashion the full skirts, serviceable and within my means. My hair which was usually frothing with curls and fell to just below my waist, was pulled back severely, so that only the slightest wave showed. The very noticeable color, a deep brown with tawny gold highlights was also muted by the style. The only other feature that was unusual were my eyes, which were a gold honey-toned brown, in contrast with the dark of my brows and hair. But the glass lensed spectacles I wore distracted from the distinctive color. To all appearances I was simply a tall, thin woman, in her early thirties or late twenties, a spinster or a widow. I was not recognizable as my former self. Even should one of my past circle meet me on the street, they would not know me as Madame Genevieve Devereaux, former Comtess de Bouvieux.

The door to the room opened, and I relaxed my breathing, taking on the cool mask of indifference, ready to meet my fate.


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two:**

Madame Lefevre stepped through the door and shut it quietly behind her. I stood, straightening my skirts and curtsied appropriately.

She was not at all what I was expecting. A small, round woman, she stood several inches below me. Her face was soft and round, gently lined and rosy cheeked, her hair was white as a dove's wing and sprang out in tiny curls under her lace cap, her eyes were a kind, faded blue, twinkling with good nature, but also quite shrewd and knowing. She was dressed in a sensible blue frock that suited her coloring very well. It was easy to see her past beauty.

"Madame Devereaux, it is indeed a pleasure to finally meet you. My managers have absolutely raved about you and your work. Such good references." She gestured for me to sit with a shooing motion, and I did so, rearranging my skirts and folding my hands.

"Thank you very much for your consideration of myself for the post, Madame. I assure you, should you decide upon me, I will not disappoint you."

She looked suprised. "Consideration? My dear, there is no consideration to be had. You have the position, child. I've never seen the likes of your work. Not a stitch to be seen, such elegant lines, a feel for the latest fashions. I would be foolish indeed not to hire you."

I briefly closed my eyes in relief.  _Thank God_. My funds had begun to run perilously close to the brink of utter ruin, and this position was the only one left open to me. Every other modiste that I had applied to had immediately recognized me, then made the connection with my maiden name and knew whose wife I had once been. Not one of them had been willing to take on such a risky employee. When I had applied to the Opera, I'd taken the chance once again, but the Palais Garnier was a large place and most of its employees did not move in the circles that I once had, where as the modistes catered to ladies of my former ilk. So far, no one had made the connection. It seemed as last that I was safe and protected from my past.  _I can start over_.

But her next statement froze me.

"Hmm, your last name is Devereaux, correct?" Her eyes were direct.

"Yes, Madame."  _Please, please, please_.

"But yet, your maiden name is also listed as Devereaux. Did you marry a distant connection? You go by  _madame_ , so I assume I am correct in guessing that you are married."

" _Was_  married, madame. And no, I did not marry into my family." I would be forced to tell her the truth eventually. She did not seem the type of woman to have the wool pulled over her eyes willingly.

"But you now go by your maiden name?"

"Yes, I changed it back to Devereaux. After it was...over."  _Please, let this be the end of this questioning_.

"Your marriage must have not been a happy one, my dear." I looked up. Her eyes were soft and sympathetic. I scoffed inwardly. Not happy did not begin to describe my marriage to Armand de Bouvieux.

"No, it was not a happy one." Ten years of fear, desperation, and wishing, wishing,  _wishing_  that something would change. That  _he_  would change. But he never had.

"May I be so bold as to ask you what your married name was?" Her question was spoken lightly, but it was like a tolling bell in my ears. I knew that everything I worked so hard for, all the plans I'd made, all the hopes I'd put into having this post were all for naught. If she understood and correctly interpreted my answer, I would be turned away. But there was no help for it.

"Bouvieux," I whispered staring at my hands clenched in my lap, so tightly that my knuckles were white.

For several moments, the room was still and silent. Neither of us spoke. I feared she heard my heart pounding in my chest.

Finally, she exhaled sharply and cast her eyes aside at the floor. Her next phrase was not a question, but a statement, spoken with firm finality.

"You are divorced. You cannot be otherwise. I know of only one Genevieve Bouvieux, formally Devereaux. You were married to Armand de Bouvieux. You are the Comtess de Bouvieux."

"I am no longer the comtess. When I divorced Armand, I forfeited my title and my fortune. My clothes were the only thing I walked away with." And only because I had made them myself. Armand would not have borne the disgust of having his former wife's handmade belongings in his home. But everything else, even the money and property I had brought into the marriage were now his. Our marriage had been an arranged one, his reason for marrying me had been my money. When I had divorced him, he had felt cheated. And no judge was going to grant a woman who leaves her noble husband a penny. I was a disgrace, even to my family.

"Well, a former comtess with the skills of a highly trained seamstress. How on earth did you ever learn to sew so well, child. Surely your parents did not encourage such a menial task?"

"No, of course not. They hated it actually! But when I was allowed to put my hair up and lower my bodice, there were no modistes who seemed to create what I visualized. I  _loved_  clothes and drawing ladies in beautiful dresses. So I decided to make my own. Our family seamstress taught me how to sew, against my parents wishes, I gave her my pin money and she bought me specific fabrics. I sewed when they were not home. When my mother finally found me out and saw some of the dresses and gowns I'd made for myself, she'd asked me to design and create some for her. Behind my father's back of course. Once some of her friends saw the gowns and asked her about them, she'd commisioned me to make more. That is how I have designed for no many nobles. Except no one had any inkling that a fifteen year old girl were creating them."

"When you married, did your husband approve?"

"No, madame, he was vehement that I wear only the finest gowns from the finest modistes. It was shameful to him to think that I would wear my own handmade garments. When he was not at home I turned a small alcove of our wine cellar into a sewing room. He never ventured there, only the servants did. I sewed my own clothes for years, and he never knew."

"Did he ever discover that you were creating your own gowns?" She had scooted her chair closer to me, her eyes still soft and kind.

Her question brought back an unbidden memory. The room felt as if it shrunk in on itself, and I found it hard to breathe.

_Armand came down the hallway. I was coming out of our rooms, shutting the door behind me when I was slammed against the wall. He was looming over me, his handsome face distorted with rage, his silvery blue eyes blazing._

_"What, Genevieve, my_ pet _, is this?"_

_He shoved a half finished bodice in my face, the stitches still loose and hanging raggedly._

_"I, I don't know, dearest. I suppose one of the maids were sewing." My voice broke, betraying me. He nodded, satisfied, and backed away, his face once more becoming the cool, handsome face I was familiar with, but knew so well was not the true man._

_"I see. Yes, love, that's what it must be. Odd though, that one of the maids would be wearing so fine a silk chiffon though, don't you think?" He dropped the piece gently onto the floor and reached to me, caressing my cheek. My eyes fell closed, knowing,_ knowing _, that this was not the end._

_I was unprepared for the fist drove into my abdomen. I crumbled, gasping in pain to the floor as he stood over me. He reached down and jerked me up by my hair. Pins went flying, pinging quietly on the carpeted floor._

_"Never lie, to me Genn, never. You know what happens to wicked girls who lie don't you?"_

_"Armand..."_

_"Silent!" He'd roared. "You are my wife, you are my comtess, you will_ not _wear your own homemade clothes. You think to embarass me..."_

_"No," I whimpered through the tears clogging my throat, "I never..."_

_"I shall have to teach you your place again, won't I, Genn. You are my wife."_

_With that, he had dragged me to our bedroom, slammed me onto the bed, and had his way. I'd laid, sobbing silently, struggling to handle the vicious pain. It hadn't been the first time he'd forced me, it wouldn't be the last._

Suddenly, I recalled where I was and who I know was.

"Yes, he did eventually find out. He wasn't pleased. It wasn't long after that our marriage ended."

"Who initiated the divorce, my dear?"

"I, madame." I looked over at myself in the mirror and was unsuprised to find tears in my eyes. "There is only so much a woman can take."

She was quiet, once again. "I understand that the Comte had a violent temper and a short fuse."

I turned back to her. "You heard correctly. I was the recipient of that temper many times, madame."

For a long moment, neither of us said a word. The only sounds in the room were the clock ticking on an end table in the corner. A soft, shushing, like the slide of fabric again a wall reached my ears, seemingly through the mirror. I glanced curiously once again at my reflection.

"Well," she spoke and I forgot the odd sound. "You have been through a great deal, child, for one so young. It is wise that you go by your maiden name. Perhaps it would be even wiser if you were called  _mademoiselle_  instead. Yes, I think that is what we shall call you from now on."

My head snapped up. Was I misunderstanding her?

"You.. you mean to tell me that I still have the post?" My voice was incredulous and I felt the sting of tears.

"Why ever would you not, my dear? I do however think it wise that you continue to dress as you are, though. I barely recognized you. I should think that we could fool a few fools, what say you?" She stood and held out her hand. With a grateful sob, I stood and took her little frame in my arms instead, hugging her closely. She laughed merrily and put her small arms around me as well.

"You'lldo very well, my dear. Very well, indeed. Now you come with me and we shall find you a room to stay in here at the Opera." She bustled off quickly, and I made to follow her.

_Free. I was free._  Armand would never think to look for me here. When our divorce was final that day in that courtroom, he had walked to me and leaned in, whispering:

"You won't humiliate me, Genevieve. I won't stand for it. I will end this, my  _love._ Think of what protection you are giving up. The death of a common woman, means nothing. And that's what you are now,  _nothing._ "

"No," I whispered to the silent, still room. "You won't touch me again, you bastard. Never again." I had a new beginning, and I would not give into fear and live my life in hiding.

I followed Madame Lefever out of the room.


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify, there won't be any differences between the chapters I post here on AO3 and on ffn. Only difference, I might post here a little more slowly since I have 49 chapters (as of now) to post. -.-
> 
> http://mandytheo.tumblr.com/ I'll post on tumblr when I've updated with a chapter past 49.

**Chapter 3**

Later that day, I was situated in my new home, a small, but comfortable room off the costume department. Set back off from the main corridors of the opera house, it was private and relatively quiet. My meager belongings, my clothes, and the necessery items for my toilet were arranged about the room. My wardrobe hung in the small closet, my hair pins, brush, mirror, and scented lotions were atop the tiny vanity, and a little vase that I had since childhood sat empty upon the nightstand. A comfortable, but narrow day bed took up the majority of the floor. Madame Lefevere had supplied me with several blankets and instructions that should I want a bath, the running boys could supply me with a tub and hot water. My eyes had widened at that bit of information. Even at the boarding house I'd stayed at after the divorce, my only option had been a half bath tin tub and cold water with the coarsest of soap. It had been soo long since I'd soaked in hot water, and I found myself looking forward to it with near glee.

I also found that employees had access to free meals at the Opera kitchen. My meals of late had been scant indeed. Bread and a bit of fruit had been my staple for a long time and as a result I had dropped every pound of pampered curves that my body had possessed as a noblewoman. I couldn't count how many times I had been forced to take in the bodice and waist of several of my dresses. A corset was no longer even necessary.

As Madame Lefevre was preparing to go and leave me to my new surroundings, she turned with a curious look on her face.

"Genevieve, did you ever have any children?" She came and sat beside me on the daybed. I shook my head, a familiar and soft pang of hurt inside me at the mention of children.

"No, it was yet another matter between Armand and me. He very much wanted an heir. God knows we,  _he_ , tried hard enough to get me with child, but it never happened." He had hated me for it, blaming me, never considering the fact that he was brutal in all of his intimate dealings with me, and that that brutality had probably damaged my ability to conceive his child. He had beaten me many times for not providing the Bouvieux line with longevity.  _Thank me, Armand. You know have the chance to sire a child with another._

"I'm sure that having children would have made the divorce that much harder to justify."

I sighed, brushing back a loose of strand of hair. "Yes, it would have. I would have lost them if the divorce had been granted. A woman has no right to her children."

"No, my dear, and a pity that is, for no man can seem to appreciate them. Well, I must go. If you need anything do not hesitate to call for someone." She stood, patting my leg. "We'll start tommorow on the new costumes that will be needed. Tonight, why don't you get acquainted with the Opera and its people and I shall see you bright and early tommorow morning. Good night, dear." She gave me a last smile and left.

I looked about me biting my bottom lip and then stood and walked to the full length mirror that covered one wall. This place seemed to be covered with these large, ornate looking glasses. There seemed to be one in every room.

"I shall get tired of looking at myself," I spoke to the room at large. I glanced back at myself and noticed that my hair was coming loose.  _Damn._  The heavy curls of my hair were near impossible to keep up in the severe chignon that I wore it in in order to alter my appearance. I had to take my hair down and redress it sometimes two to three times a day. I hated having to bind it so tightly, but when married, my hair had always been my crowning glory and I had always received numerous praises for it. It was not easily forgotten and should one of my former acquaintances see me and recognize me, and run into Armand and make mention of seeing his former wife and where, he would come for me, to punish me for making a fool of him. It was a chance simply for vanity's sake that I would not take.

I dug my hands into the mass until the pins began to loosen then pulled them out one by one, plunking them on the vanity, until the last one came out and my heavy curls fell at my waist. I closed my eyes, moaning softly in the back of my throat as I massaged my throbbing scalp. The excuriatingly tight chignon pulled my hair in several directions and taking it down felt better than anything I could imagine at the moment. Sighing with relief, I bent at the waist and let my hair tumble over my head, still rubbing the sore spots.

As I worked my fingers through my curls, a soft sound came to me, much like the swish of fabric that I had heard through the wall in the costume room. I quickly straightened tossing my hair over my shoulders and strained to listen. It came again and I realized it was behind the mirror.

_Rats?_  No, much larger than rats. The sound came from above even my head and seemed to travel to the floor. I stepped closer to the mirror and lightly touched the cool surface.

"Hello?" I whispered softly. Immediately the sound stopped and all was still and quiet in the room. I immediately felt foolish. It was probably just a draft blowing through the opera house, after all how could something large be moving behind the mirror, it was solid stone in the back.

Shaking my head at my silliness, I quickly went to redressing my hair before someone knocked on my door. I decided to braid it and let it hang down my back, a slightly looser style than the torturous chignon, but still severe with no loose curls around my face. After I approved of what I saw in the mirror, I decided it was time to humor my stomach and go find something to eat, besides dry bread and fruit.

I sat at the Opera cafe, an empty plate that had contained delicious roasted chicken and an assortment of flavorful vegetables, feeling very contented and satsified. It had been too long since I'd ate what one could consider a real meal.

As I took a sip of white wine, I felt a peculiar sensation between my shoulder blades. I turned to meet the steely gray eyes of an older woman dressed in black with only a richly embroidered shawl as a relief to the starkness of her appearance. She smiled slightly and and gestured to the chair opposite me.

"May I?" she spoke in a low cultered accent that I did not immediately recognize.

"Of course, Madame, please do." I straightend, feeling as if I should be on my best behavior in front of this woman, odd indeed considering I was thirty years old. She sat across from me and smiled that mysterious smile again.

"You are new here, are you not? You were not here before the closing last fall?" She looked away from me a moment to raise her hand imperiously to a passing waiter. He quickly jumped to attention and came over briskly.

"A cup of tea, Madame Giry, no sugar no cream, a hint of lemon?"

"Yes, Marius, and be quick about it." Her firm tone sent him off quickly again in the direction of the kitchen. She turned back to me and raised a brow.

"Yes, this is my first day here. I am the new assistant seamstress. My name is Genevieve Devereaux." I spoke quietly, carefully, keeping my voice quiet, somewhat submissive. I wanted to give noone here the impression that I had been borne of any higher station than they.

"You are the replacement for Anna Toudore, an altogether foolish woman, running off and leaving her post of so many years merely because of a slight shove." She looked at me closely, a smile still playing about her lips, but her eyes very serious. "Let us hope that you show more sensibilty than her."

I lowered my gaze, gathering my thoughts. What an altogether disconcerting woman this Madame Giry was. Who was she in the Opera and what right did she have to prematurely scold me over my reactions. I raised my head, keeping a soft smile on my face.

"I can assure you, Madame. I am a very practical woman, not given to flights of fancy or fits of the vapors over a fright. I do not believe I will be shoved by the Opera Ghost any time soon." I let aslight tinge of hardness come into my voice, that part of me that had kept me alive and running since leaving Armand.

A glimmer of...approval?...passed over Madame Giry's eyes, then faded back into the cool depths. Her tea appeard at her elbow and she took a small sip before raising her eyes to mine. "You may not be shoved, Mademoiselle Devereaux, but you may be leaned upon. All of us are, at some point or another." She sipped her tea again, keeping those cool eyes upon mine.

I was about to ask her what that cryptic comment had meant when a clear, sweet voice rang out across the marbled cafe.

"Maman!" I looked up to see a lovely petite girl running toward us, dressed in a frothy skirt of tulle and the quilted bodice of a dancer, her tiny feet clad in pointe slippers. A mane of golden hair flew behind her and she was flushed with her exertions. "Maman!" she flew up to the table and grasped Madam Giry's shoulder.

"Meg Giry!" the older woman's voice cut across the air like glass. "You forget yourself."

"Oh, forgive me!" She gave me a quick graceful curtsy. "Mademoiselle," she breathed, then turned back to her mother. "Jammes and Lisette are sneaking into the attics to catch a glimpse of the Opera Ghost. Jammes claims she saw him only last week up there, dashing from one rafter to another, and they are making the most awful fuss. They're drawing the attention of everyone in the hall..."

"Meg, go wait for me in the corridor and tell those foolish creatures that unless they want to be put through combinations all night, they will cease at once, and report in the dancer's common room. Go, girl, now!"

With another quicky curtsey to me, Meg Giry flew off once more, her feet pattering on the floor.

Madame Giry rose from her chair. I rose as well, still perplexed as to what her "leaning" comment had meant. But she gave me a last mysterious smile and then turned, striding off gracefully.

I stared after her, my brow furrowed. Who had they all been leaned upon  _by_  and why would this person choose to lean upon me?

That night, after brushing out my hair, washing my face, and changing into a thin cotton shift, I laid down upon the daybed and gazed at my still, white face reflected in the mirror. The Opera House lay around me silent and peaceful. I was so very tired.

I sighed into the darkness and willed myself to sleep, but found I could not. So many thoughts tumbled through my head.

_Can I do this? Can I actually live this life,_ alone? _Can I really be sure that I will suceed in this venture to start over?_  All my life, I'd been spoiled. First by my parents, then by Armand. He had been unspeakably cruel in our private life, but I had never wanted for anything materialistic. I'd never had to defend myself alone. The day that I had done what very few, if any women had done, especially of my circle, and divorced my husband, I'd signed away any chance of having a normal life ever again. I'd escaped from cruelty and abuse, but had ran into a life of constantly looking over my shoulder, never being able to trust again. Armand would pay to find me, and pay well.

Madame Giry's comment had frightened me. What price would I pay to this unseen person who might choose to...lean.. upon me.


	5. Chapter Four

**Chapter 4**

I was sleeping so very soundly, a dreamless, deep slumber that came so very rarely. The bed was warm, the blankets cocooned about me in a nest of tranquil safety that only burrowing into them could give one. I sighed into the peace of the tiny room.  _So warm, so safe_.

A pounding came at my door, instantly waking me. I sat up startled and wide eyed. My gaze flew to the huge mirror and took in my shadowed eyes and my tousled curls. My shift hung off one shoulder, and I strangely realized, as if from a distance, how vulnerable I looked. How vulnerable I  _felt._

The pounding on the door continued, and I swallowed the thickness in my throat down and stood, wincing at the coldness of the floor on my bare feet.

Before I could reach the door to unlock it and see who was so rudely summoning me, it burst open, the hinges exploding, and the heavy wood splintering as it smashed into the wall.

In the doorway stood Armand, dressed as immaculately as I remembered him, his face cool and handsome, his hard blue eyes cutting into me like razors.

I felt curiously calm, knowing that my fate had been decided for me. He would kill me now. There could be no other option; his pride and the respect of his peers demanded no less.

He stalked toward me, his boots thudding heavily on the floor, until he stood before me. He raised a single finger and lifted my chin. "Mine." he whispered harshly.

"You never even loved me," I said softly, a single tear rolling down my nerveless, cold cheek. "You had so many mistresses. What was I to you?"

"Why, what do you think, Genn?" He leaned in close, his breath cool and minted. " _My trophy._ " And his hands came around my neck with sudden violence, crushing. I felt my bones snapping under his large, manicured hands. My mind screamed in agony, but my mouth did not open. The last thing I saw was his beautiful, handsome face, smiling with smug contentment.

I woke screaming, my cries echoing hoarsely about the tiny room. With ruthless speed, I was snapped back to reality and this new existence.

I shook all over, curling into a ball, and sobbing quietly into my knees.  _A dream_. Only a dream.

_Oh, god. I can't do this, not alone. Not alone!_  I felt so small, lying there, trying desperately to quiet my weeping and calm my thundering heart. Would the nightmares ever end? Would there ever,  _ever_ be  _one_  night where I could lay and sleep and know that I was completely and utterably safe from Armand. Oh, how I wanted safety, freedom from the horror that my life had become since I had walked down the aisle and said my vows to Armand. I wanted a shield so badly, to be shielded from the cruelties of my life. All my life, until I'd married my devastatingly beautiful husband, I'd been shielded from the horrors of reality, cossested and pampered. How I wished to be seventeen again, flighty and so very silly, pretty and free, without a care in the world except what gown I would make next, what suitor my catch my fancy.

And then, like it had done for the past several months, I felt the steel infuse my backbone, felt the hardness take over and dry my tears. I would not be afraid of living. I had a new chance, a new start. This life at the Opera and all the things I would encounter were mine for the taking. Today was the first day of my new post. I certainly would accomplish nothing, lying in this bed curled up like a scolded dog.

I quickly tossed back the covers and stood, walking purposefully toward the mirror in my shift. My hair lay tumbled around my shoulders, and my eyes were shadowed. I was hardly presentable in my current state and made haste to prepare my toilet to ready myself for the day.

Half an hour later, I was dressed in full black skirts and a prim white blouse buttoned to my throat. My hair was pulled back in the large chignon once more, every pin placed to perfection. I'd washed my face, and rubbed vanilla scented cream into my skin. My spectacles were resting properly on my face and I was ready to face the challenges of dressing a cast of singers and dancers.

Locking my door behind me and pocketing the key in my voluminous skirts, I bustled down the empty corridor. The Opera Cafe was calling and a cup of hot espresso and perhaps some brioche was very appealing.  _Mmm, glorious food._

As I turned the corner to come out on the common area, a soft fluttering sound caught my attention. I glanced up to watch an envelope floating above me, flitting softly though the air, then coming to rest at my feet. I frowned down at the black lined cream stationary and bent to pick it up.  _How very odd._

The envelope was sealed with red wax, stamped into the unsavory form of a grinning skull.

Who would use such a seal? I grimaced, but began to gently pry it open anyway. I glanced up and down the floor wandering if I was going to be accosted any moment by the disconcerting Madame Giry or the observant Madame Lefevere, but no such good lady appeared, so I continued to open the letter.

Inside written in a very messy, lopsided hand, almost like that of a child, was a missive addressed to ... _me? How did...?_

I shook my head and read the infantish writing as best I could.

_My Dear Madame Devereaux:_

_Welcome, dear lady, to my Opera House. I understand that you are to replace the errant Madame Toudore. Such an unfortunate little scare she had. One should always take care when backstage, do you not think?_

_I have taken the liberty of sampling your work myself. The very well made garment you brought in to show my foolish managers you will no longer find where you left it. I was in need of a new suit, considering my others were destroyed by those twits that you will now call your fellow workers. It fitted perfectly, Madame, you must have known what I prefer. Don't worry yourself, my dear Genevieve, you will learn in time_ all _that I prefer._

_Now, I do believe you have my cast to dress. I am certain that you are not a woman to disappoint. You may return to your duties._

_Signed,_

_O.G._

For several long, silent moments, I could not move, only stare at the letter in my hand. I wondered curiously why the paper began to shake before my eyes, but then realized that it was my hand that was shaking.

The note contained no threatening words, but yet I felt very threatened. It contained no violence, but I could sense the violence in the hand that had wrote this. Who would play such a cruel joke? Such innuendoes? I would learn  _all_ that he prefers? Who had wrote this and why?

Then I noticed the signature.  _O. G._ Opera Ghost.

I almost crumpled to the floor in relief. A petty trick and nothing more. More than likely perpetuated by the little dancers who delighted in horror stories or a careless boy intent on watching the newest employee of the Opera Populaire tremble in her boots.

"Foolishness." I prounounced to the hall. "Utter foolishness." No one appeared. "Ha ha. You had me for a moment, but the game is up, come out and show your face and maybe I won't give you to Madame Giry for a good cuffing." Still no one came out to confess to their little deed.

"Very well," I sighed loudly and ripped the letter in two neatly. "I shall find you out eventually." I tore it once more in two and moved to find an appropriate place to dispose of it.

Only then did I notice the post script on the back:

_Your hair is beautiful unbound._


	6. Chapter Five

**Chapter 5**

_Your hair is beautiful unbound._

After I had thrown the letter away with a shaking hand, I continued on my way to the costume room to begin work for the day. But my mind was far from my duties. How could anyone have seen my hair down and out of the severe chignon that I had worn it in since my arrival at the Opera yesterday. The only moments in which I had worn my hair down my back were the times spent in my chamber, with the door locked. No one had come in while I had been there. Not a maid, not a running boy, not one of the young dancers flitting about. No one except for me.

I tried reasoning in my mind. I was a very practical woman, I truly had never been given to flights of fancy. There had to be a reasonable explanation for this as well.

It was possible, if one looked close enough, to see that my hair was long and curly. Even when bound up so tightly as it was now, there was a slight wave in it and it was coiled many times over. Anyone could interpret long, curly hair as beautiful. It was the current rage in Paris to have curly tresses. God knows I'd seen friends a plenty at dinner parties with singed curls due to hot irons left in a little too long. I'd never had to worry about fretting hours in front of a mirror to acheive just the right set of my hair.

Perhaps it had been noticed that I wore my hair so severely, and thought of as a great way to poke fun. The majority of the staff were under the impression that I was a virginal spinster, firmly on the shelf, with no suitors ever interested. Such ladies were often the brunt of cruel jokes and taunts at their under developed vanities. A perfect mark for silly, beautiful little ballet rats or the scruffy young boys who ran about, performing errands.

_That has to be the answer, a joke and nothing more_.

It put my mind at ease. And I tried to ignore the slight hurt that I was thought of as an ape-leader.

All thoughts of mysteious letters and unbound hair promptly left my mind as I entered the costume room. I had stepped into pandemonium.

The room was filled with the cast of the Opera Populaire. Groups of giggling ballet rats, the more elegant senior dancers, chorus members flirting outrageously with the male singers, and a small group of the elect: the Principals, as Madame Lefevre had referred to them.

As soon as the door shut, all eyes turned on me. Some kind and friendly, like those of Madame Lefevre and the young ballet girls, some cool and distant, like the chorus members and senior dancers, and some hard and hostile, like those of the imperious red-headed woman who stood at the center, one hand placed on her hip, the other holding a little white, yapping poodle. Under her superior gaze, which I was sure was intended to make me feel  _inferior_ , I straightened my posture, my head rising, my nose tiliting just enough, assuming my role as mistress of the manor. I was second only to Madame Lefevre, and would not tolerate the hostility of the resident diva. I had already been warned, and therefore I was armed. I would certainly be no one's servant.

Smiling, letting once again the steel show through my exterior, I stepped forward. Ready to face this room of challenges.

By noon, I was exhausted.

Over a hundred cast members had had their measurements taken, and bolts of fabric now lay smoothed out over the numerous tables, outlines of which pieces were to be cut out penciled onto the opposite side. I had the Roue twins, who when properly and firmly directed were very good obediant girls, cutting out the bodices, arms, and skirts of the ballet ensembles, which were going to be the very first needed for the new production.

Over the screeching demands of the reigning diva, I had quite coldly and succinctly informed her that costumes would be finished in the order in which they were needed. The ballet was the first act of Le Baudelaire, theirs would be needed first. Also they were all the same cut, color, and design. It was simply more prudent to get them finished first. I had assured her, whilst pushing her out the door, that her gowns would be finished in good time.

I had also noticed that the finely made evening suit, cloak and hat were indeed,gone. I could not allow my mind to ponder on that fact for long.

As the twins moved silently in between the tables, the only sound an ocassional soft giggle, I sat upon a stool, my mouth filled with pins, hemming the edge of the silk skirt that La Sorelli, the prima ballerina, would wear in the first act, during her long, flamboyant solo. The material was a luxurious silk crepe, dyed the color of aquamarines and diaphanous in its weight. It would drape off her elegant shoulders, then tightly form the bodice before flaring in full skirts to come just above her calves. A scarlet red sash would be tied about her waist and would be removable to twine about her lover's neck as they danced. The concept of the gown had been mine, and Madame Lefevre had been very pleased.

I had found myself glowing beneath her praise. My first few moments inside the busy room had been inwardly terrifying. What if I failed? I had never before designed for the stage. What if I got it all wrong? But my mind had taken over, and my hands had simply seemed to follow. The hours had went by in a frenzied blur and I had found myself whirling from one task to the next, mentally catalouging my mistakes and my triumphs. For the time that I had dashed about the room, lost in the ebb and flow of the work, I had forgotten all about why I was here at the Opera. With measuring ribbons hung about my neck and odd pins and needles stuck inside my hair to be pulled out at a moment's notice if needed, I felt as if I had always been here. My excitement grew for the stage, for the music, for the opening night when all of our hard work would come to fruiition. The Roue twins had danced about me, bringing me into their silly young women's circle, making me giggle and blush like the little ingenue I had once been. Madame Lefevre moved about gently, lending a hand, directing me from a distance, and praising my workmanship, making me feel as I were her bondswoman, her apprentice in this art of taking music and dance and turning it into something that could be held and run through one's fingers.

I hummed to myself as I worked the needle through the hem, laughing softly at an off color comment of Jeanette's, when I caught a glance of myself in the mirror.

_I was smiling, and so were my eyes._

For a moment, I could only look at myself, my spectacles half falling off my face from my frenzy of activity, my hair beginning to loosen once again, some long strands at my temples and and forehead hanging limply, my face flushed happily. For the first time since I had married Armand ten years ago, I was content. The Opera had seemed to put its arms around me and welcome me in.

But slowly, my smile faded and I knew that my enjoyment in what I was doing could only make me forget for so long that I was living a lie. I sighed softly and straightened the useless spectacles, pinned back the loose strands of hair so once again I was neat and prim. As I turned back to the dress, a memory came, creeping in softly.

_It was my wedding night. I sat in front of my vanity, anxiously awating the arrival of my handsome new husband, Armand de Bouvieux. I had married him only hours ago in the beautiful chateau of my parents and now we were at his home._

_I gazed into my reflection and admired what I saw. My hair fell in frothy curls to my waist, spilling over my shoulders, in contrast against the beautiful white peignor I wore over the lacy night shift. My face was flushed in the candle light, my lips parted, in anticipation of the sweet kisses Armand was sure to lavish on me. My honey brown eyes glowed softly in the mirror, dark with thinking of what lay ahead. I was an innocent, but my mother had told me that what lay between a man and a woman could be quite pleasureable. I was ready for the loss of my innocence._

_I stood and admired my figure in the swivel mirror across the room. I was tall, a bit more than fashion dictated, but I was svelte and firmly curved and proud of my silouhette.._

_The door opened and Armand stepped through, dressed in a scarlet robe and silk trousers. He smiled, his eyes flashing in the dark room, and prowled over to me._

_"Good evening, my love." I whispered shyly, approaching him. He took my hands in his and brought them to his chest._

_"Genn, you look beautiful. Much to be beautiful to be so innocent." His tone had hardened imperceptiably, and I frowned slightly._

_"My innocence belongs to you, Armand. You know that." The room felt chillier._

_"But for how long, Genevieve? How long until you take a lover besides me? Hmm?" He began slowly pursuing me, pushing me back further into the room, towards the bed._

_"You willalways be the only one, Armand. The only one that I'll ever want." I was beginning to be frightened by this strange side of my husband that I'd never seen before. His smile was cold, and unholy. He seemed to be getting pleasure out of intimidating me._

_"You're lying. You'll take a lover and push his bastard on me, won't you? Won't you?" I was now against the bed and fell back on it with a cry when he shoved me and then crawled atop me. "Tell me you'll take a lover, Genevieve, tell me." He was spitting the words in my face as he untied my robe. I lay frozen , tears beginning to roll down my cheeks._

_"No..."_

_"Tell me, tell me, now! NOW!" He roared in my face, garbbing my chin, bruising me instantly. He screamed over and over for me to lie to him and tell him that I would grow bored with him and take a lover._

_Finally, I whimpered that I would; it seemed that that would be the only thing that would satisfy him._

_He stilled above me, smiling down at me, stroking my cheek gently._

_"You see, Genn, all women are loose, faithless creatures." And then he took me, with no warning, no gentleness. "I'll make you understand what you are." He growled as he worked above me. And he did. By morning, I would never forget..._

The images of that painful night slowly faded and I breathed again, my vision still unfocused. I had never understood fully why Armand treated me the way that he had. All through our marriage, he reminded me constantly that I was a woman, and to him that meant foul things. He'd punished me for another's sins. I never knew for whom I did nightly penance.

"Mademoiselle Devereaux,"

"Mademoiselle."

"Genevieve!"

I snapped out of my reverie and immediately felt a sharp prick of pain. I looked down. I'd ran the needle into my finger. A bright drop of blood bloomed on the tip.

That evening, I was invited to a dinner party to be held in the Opera Cafe for the staff and cast to celebrate the reopening of the theatre. The Roue twins had informed me that it was to be formal and to wear an evening gown. This presented a problem. All of my evening gowns I'd sold to commission shops after the divorce had been final. The only gowns I had left were suitable for evenings spent in simple company but not for formal evenings when one would be expected to dress their finest.

I finally chose a soft amber taffeta gown that I'd made once for a simple family dinner gathering at my parent's home. It was long sleeved, but had a scooped neckline and full skirts and wrists trimmed in black lace. With my dark black lace shawl, a particuarly beautiful piece that I hadn't been able to part with, and a black ribbon about my throat, it would suffice.

As I stood before the mirror, gowned and ready, I wished with longing that I could take off the damned spectacles and wear my hair in a more comfortable style.

"Well, you can't." I spoke to myself. "You can't jeopardize your livelihood here simply to not have an aching head for once."

I surveyed myself in the mirror. The gown, though simple suited me. I didn't feel lovely, as I once had, when I'd spend hours making sure I looked ravishing to not embarass Armand. Being beautiful no longer mattered to me. Being independent and  _feeling like my life was my own_  mattered to me. I was thirty years old and divorced. Being beauiful would no longer help me. This particular gown had been taken in many times, testimony to my months of barely getting by. The fact that I now wore it to a party celebating my employment and future was enough to make me feel as if I had finally broke free.

I turned to leave, and stilled. On my nightstand, in the tiny silver vase I'd had for so long and had been empty for as many years, was a single dark red rose, an ebony ribbon tied about the stem.


	7. Chapter Six

**Chapter 6**

As I trotted down the Grand Staircase to the foyer below and the attached Cafe,  
I mused on the rose in my room.

Suprisingly I wasn't too concerned. It had most likely been put there by sweet little Madame Lefevre to thank me for my first day of service, or perhaps by one of the Roue twins as a pretty gesture. My room  _had_  been unlocked for some time today while I had been going in and out borrowing a bit of ribbon to thread about my neck for the gown I was wearing. It could have been slipped into the vase at any time during that interlude.

I smiled, quite contented with myself. The delicate rose had pleased me more than any garish bouquet of hothouse flowers that Armand had ever bought me. It seemed so genuinely offered out of the goodness of someone else's heart. After I'd found it, I'd plucked it out of the tiny vase and brought the silky petals to my nose, taking in the fresh, sweet fragrance. The old Genevieve would have never found such joy in such a small thing.

Below me the party appeared, a colorful array of gowns and the dark coats of perfectly turned out gentlemen intermingling. Laughter rose and I found myself laughing, as Jeanette and Marie spun toward me and danced over in matching pale blue silk gowns. They looked lovely, their fresh faces glowing and the candlelight gilding their golden hair. Both came up and flanked me on either side, threading their bare arms through my taffetta clad ones. I suddenly felt like a gawky giant between these two petite beauties, but their guileless charm quickly put me at ease.

"Oooh, Genevieve, what a lovely dress. Is it one of yours?" Jeanette smoothed her hand over the golden brown material. Earlier, due to our comradeship in the costume room working toward our common goal, I had insisted that they call me by my first name.

"Yes, I'm afraid that I didn't possess any elegant things like the gowns you two are wearing. They're beautiful!"

"Oh, they're not ours. They belong to the costume department. There's a small liberetto that's performed a couple oftimes a year with twin characters. We borrow these all the time." Marie suddenly looked apologetic. "It is alright if we continue doing so, isn't it?"

I laughed and reassured her that if Madame Lefevere was fine with it, then I certainly could see no problem.

We moved into the circle of the party and unlinked arms, as I was offered a small glass of champagne. I took it and sipped gently; I did not hold liquor well., one would have to do me all night.

I was introduced to more staff and cast that I had not previously met during my hours out of my room. I smiled, keeping my face schooled into a bland, pleased expression, and my voice quiet and low. I didn't want to be overly noticed, to have people look at me too deeply for fear one of them may have at some point seen me before. Armand and I had frequented the Opera on occassion.

To my relief, those who met me simply gave me a glance over, listened half interested as I was introduced as Anna Toudore's replacement, nodded to me or shook my hand and then moved on. A tall, thin, prim looking spinster didn't hold much interest.

I pressed hands with the kind, older ladies of the cleaning staff, and studiously avoided the razor eyes of La Carlotta. When I finally found Madame Lefevere in the crowd, dressed in mulberry muslim, I went to her side and she smiled delightedly and bussed my cheek.

"Oh, dear, it's good to see you enjoying yourself. What a lovely gown, it suits you very nicely. Are you finding everything to your satisfaction here? I was immensely pleased by your work today, I do hope you know that." She took my hand in her soft, lined one and patted. I gently squeezed and smiled down at her.

"Yes, I know, Madame. Thank you so much for the beautiful rose, I appreciate that gesture so much."

Her faded eyes grew puzzled. "My dear, I didn't put a rose in your room, though I wish I had, you seem so pleased by it."

My brow furrowed. I glanced over to the Roue twins, laughing and flirting outrageously with two handsome stage hands. Could they have?

"Oh, well," I sighed, turning back and smiling at Madame Lefevre. "It really holds no import. Perhaps a member of the staff chose to welcome me with it. It was a pretty gesture, never the less."

She smiled and I turned to gaze about the room watching the festivities. I didn't miss the cool assessing gaze of Madame Giry.

After the last of the revelers had returned to their homes or to their beds at the Opera, I made my way upstairs, weary with listening to all the numerous speeches and impromptu music that had been offered. Carlotta Guidacelli, not wanting to be outdone had sung three arias. After sitting and bearing through them, I had to admit, that woman's voice left me wanting more.

I reached my lone room at the end of the long corridor and fished the key out of my pocket in my dress. I was just beginning to lament my aching muscles after such a long day when a small boy appeared at my side. Grinning cheekily, he asked if I would like a tub and hot water sent up for a bath. I stopped and a slow smile spread across my face. The thought of soaking in a long hot bath sounded like ecstacy.

I quickly sent him on his way, and stepped inside my room ,singing softly.  _Oooohh, a bath!_  I almost danced around the room as I pulled out my tiny bottles of scented oils that I bought with aprecious bit of money I'd kept hidden in my wardrobe after the divorce. I'd never had the chance to use any of them; the boarding house water had always been ice cold and I had not wanted to linger.

As I arranged the little bottles on the vanity, a slip of something white caught my attention. I turned and stared unbelevingly at the tiny vase with the rose, and the black edged envelope resting against it. I whirled about the room, there was no one there. I ran to the bed, and dropped to my knees checking underneath it; no one. I threw open the closet; again, no one. There was no other place to hide in the room.

I then noticed that my floor had been freshly swept.  _The cleaning staff_. Someone must have asked them to leave the note for me. Calming myself I strode to the dresser and picked up the envelope. The same red, wax grinning skull greeted me. It seemed to stare at me with unholy glee. I promptly ripped through his face and tore out the letter inside, which was written in the same childish handwriting as before.

_My Dear Madame Genevieve:_

_Did you find the rose to your liking? It was quite amusing to watch you inquire after it tonight at the party. Those foolish young twins would not have thought to have left you such a simple, eloquent gift._

_Why did I leave it for you, you ask? For the same reason that Madame Lefevere would have left it for you; You pleased me immensely today. Such hard work, such determination. You will fit in very well here at my little Opera House. In more ways than one._

_I have been thinking upon you. A great deal. Yes, you will do nicely. Very nicely indeed._

_Enjoy the rose._

_Signed,_

_O.G._

_P.S. The suit fits very well. It is very rewarding to once again feel oneself. You will assist me greatly in that area, Genn._

I stared at the missive, reading it over and over again, sinking onto my bed. He was pleased by me? Who was  _he?_  An admirer, surely not. I had not been here long enough to warrant an admirer and when out of my room, I maintained so prim an appearance and so unwelcoming a picture,femininity wiseat least, that it would take a great stretch of imagination to believe I had caught the fancy of someone.

Simply someone who had seen my work today and my determination to do my duties correctly?

_O.G.?_  Had I begin ignoring the possibility that this man, this  _phantom_ , was still alive and underneath the Opera and had noticed me, and chose to acknowledge my work in  _his_  Opera.

Once again, there was no threat in the letter, but I felt threatened still.

But the idea that this madman who had kidnapped Christine Daae, and had become the stuff of lengends with the ballet girls actually existed, and was sending me pretty little praises was simply too much.

"How ridiculous! I'm going to find the scamp responsible for this and turn him over my knee." I declared to the room. Perhaps even now the rascal was outside the door, his hand pressed to his mouth, barely restraining his laughter.

I marched to the door and nearly frightened to death the little maids holding my large tub and several buckets of steaming water. I blushed deeply and let them in.

After they had left and I thanked them profusely, I bent beside the tub and added my vanilla scented oil, closing my eyes and inhaling the rich, sensual aroma. I stood and began unhooking the eyes of my dress until it fell in a soft whush at my feet. I carried it over toa chair, laying it across, humming softly. I turned and looked into the large mirror on the wall as I began untying my petticoats, dropping them also and arranging them over the chair. When all I had left on was my loosely fitted corset and the lace chemise underneath, I reached up and began taking down my hair, pin by pin, still humming. I was looking forward so much to this bath.  _Mmm, the one thing I had missed more than anything else._

After my hair was completely unbound and falling to my waist, I unhooked my corset, laid it over the chair and then propped my foot upon the chair to unroll my stockings down my legs. It had been so long since I'd had the luxury of indulging in a long toilet and I pulled the sheer stocking off with glee waving it about in the air before letting it float to the floor, I then propped up my other foot and gave the same carefree treatment to the other stocking. Finally I pulled the lacy chemise over my head and stood nude in thesomewhat chilly air. I delicately stepped into the tub, moaning low in the back of my throat at the first touch of the steaming water. I sunk in the rest of the way, stretching out my legs and leaving back, sighing happily and letting my eyes close in bliss. I luxuriated in the quiet of the moment, the only sound my little clock and the soft sway of the water around me. Once again I heard the quiet shush of fabric through the wall and what sounded like a soft groan, but I shrugged. This building was bound to make noise once in a while. I closed my eyes once again and sighed softly.

It was only then that I remembered that theletter had called me ... _Genn._


	8. Chapter Seven

**Chapter 7**

The next morning, I laid in the small daybed. The Opera House lay quiet about me. It was still very early and no one had risen from their beds to begin the day.

I hadn't slept.

Someone, here, in this theatre, knew who I was.

_How?_

I had been so careful. The only person who knew that I was the former wife of the Comte de Bouvieux was Madame Lefevre. No one else even guessed that the _uppity_ young noblewoman who had had the nerve to divorce her outrageously wealthy husband due to  _domestic_  disputes was in hiding from society in the costume department of the Opera Populaire.

I remembered so well the outrage of my family, my friends, and especially Armand. They all thought that I was being ridiculously unreasonable, wanting to bring so much shame on my family and his. No one divorced. It simply was not done. And those who did were instant social outcasts, turned out of their home and seen as pure trash. And when a woman sought a divorce away from a noble husband, it was even worse on her. I was seen as taking all I had been born and bred for, and throwing it in the faces of countless generations of noble blood.

Even when, in that courtroom with all those eyes staring at me in scorned disbelief, I'd told my story, the abuse, the rape, the utter cruelty for no reason, I was given no quarter. I had former servants as witnesses. Some had came to me after Armand would beat me senseless and take me in a carriage to see our doctor. I'd always claim that I'd fallen in my clumsiness; he'd always accepted it, but I knew when his eyes lit upon mine that he  _knew._  There were only so many times that servants could bring you to his home, in the middle of the night, only so many times that he could set broken bones, bind ribs, apply leeches to virulent bruises. I saw him two to three times a month, every month, for the ten years of my marriage. He'd always see me out the door, and say in his disapproving voice, "You must be more careful of how you step in your home, Madame le Comtess." We both knew that he didn't speak of the way in which I walked.

He wouldn't even come to testify. He served many noble families, he couldn't risk losing his patients. To stand behind me would have invited hate and ridicule.

The judge had been completely uncaring about my testimonies of rape. "Madame Bouvieux, a husband cannot rape his wife. He has the right to demand of you anything he wants, including your body." The courtroom had filled with laughter at the words of one particular  _grand dame_  in Armand's family. "What's good for the gander is good for the goose."

With all that shame and degradation behind me, I had been very, very careful not to allow anyone here at the Opera, my last place to stay respectable, know of my former identity. It wasn't only Armand's wrath that I feared, but the knowledge that any member of his family could have me run out of Paris, forced to live on the street and possibly sell my body to live. I'd take my own life before I would ever suffer that.

So how had this O.G. found out my name that only Armand called me?

And knowing that, what price would they extract from me to keep that information secret?

Over the next several days, I received no more letters, no more mysterious roses. My days at the Opera Populaire settled into a familiar routine.

Each day was filled with preparing the costumes for the new production of Le Baudelaire. My little "family" and I had soon finished all the rough assembling of every garment for the  _corps de ballet_ , and only the final stitching and fittings remained. Soon the costume room was filled with diaphanous fantasies of aqua chiffon, and touches of scarlet here and there. Simple, lightweight head dresses in soft rose colored silk hung from every peg and rack in the room, awaiting the final touches of beading and edging. The principals, including the demanding Carlotta had been mollified, by numerous fittings of the luxurious, voluptuous gowns the ladies would wear and fitted robes and crowns the men would. I had decided right away that we would keep a schedule and had posted it on the wall, and we had kept to it. With two and half weeks left to opening night, we were exactly as we should be. A hum of anticipation hung in the air. The Opera Populaire was to have its greatest and prestigious season ever after a string of tragedies that had nearly ruined the great house. It was breathtaking being a part of that.

I had begun to relax, to enjoy even more my days here, my work. The letters had obviously been a joke, a testing of sorts of the new employee, nothing more. I convinced myself of this and firmly believed it.

I had no idea that the warning that Madame Giry had given me that first day would soon come to reality.

One night after a particularly long day of being on my knees hemming, I was walking wearily but contentedly up the stairs, humming softly to myself, a book in my hands that I borrowed from Jeanette, a Jane Austen that I had been meaning to read, when I heard a familiar sound, like the fluttering of a small bird's wings. I glanced up and felt my face go white. A letter was floating down to me.

Anger filled me.  _You let me get comfortable and then you strike again, you bastard!_  I crossly snatched the letter out of the air and stormed the rest of the way to my room, shoved the key in the lock, and slammed in, letting the door resound, and threw the book upon the bed.

I ripped open the letter and tossed the discarded envelope angrily to the ground.

_My Dear Genevieve:_

_Our games are at an end, my dear. It is time, I think, to come to the point of this little play of ours._

_For the last year, I have lived down here, in no way the comfort that I once did. I can no longer go above the surface except to pay a little visit once in a while to your lovely person. My supply of funds has run dry, and I am in the need of more._

_Where as I once could freely demand my monthly allowance of 20,000 francs, I no longer have that option. One word from me and my sanctuary would once more be invaded. I will not take that risk._

_Therefore, I have decided that_ you _will take that risk for me._

_My first need is food. You will go to the cafe after hours and make up a basket of breads, cheeses, fruits, and a few good bottles of wine then you will bring the basket of said goods to your room where you will leave it in front of the mirror. You will not leave the room, but wait with your back turned to the mirror until I come and take the basket. You will not turn around._

_Just in the chance that you think to refuse me, think on this, Mademoiselle Genevieve Devereaux, formally the Comtess de Bouvieux, your dear beloved once-husband is looking for you. You humiliated him and it has caught my attention that he has been inquiring of your where-abouts. How unfortunate should he hear that you are here in my Opera House parading as a common seamstress. How unfortunate indeed._

_I have watched you closely. I have observed that you enjoy your life here. Do not put it at risk. I will be waiting at midnight tonight. Do not disappoint me, Genevieve._

_Signed_

_O.G._

_Incidentally before you await me, take down your hair. I'd enjoy taking in the fragrance of the vanilla that you use in your bath._

I finished reading the letter and slowly sat down upon the bed. My rage had left me and all that was left was an icy numbness that crept around my heart.

This man was going to use me and his knowledge of my past. I had become the victim of a man once more, and there was not a thing I could do about it. My hands were tied very firmly and I heard the door of my cage slam shut.

For long moments I did nothing, inwardly considering flight. I could pack my things now and be gone before midnight, before this O.G. was expecting me.

But no matter where I went, or what I did, I would always be running from my past and it would eventually catch up with me. Greed is a powerful force to be reckoned with.

I had no option but to do what he asked. I loved my life here and I felt that I had finally come home at last and as he had written, I could not risk it. I lifted the letter and re-read it with dull, aching eyes. I knew that the food would not be the end and I would be forced to steal much more for him. What else might he demand from me?

The Opera Ghost, or the Phantom of the Opera, as the ballet rats called him, was a real living breathing man. I had learned much of him over the last weeks from Marie and Jeanette and even Madame Lefevre. He had lived underneath the opera since its creation, had helped create it. He'd terrorized the managers, demanding everything from money to how the theatre was to be run. He'd left the individuals of the opera well enough alone until he had fallen in love with Christine Daae two years ago. Then his influence had not been able to be contained. She would disappear for days at a time only to come back with horrific stories for her lover, Raoul de Chagny, the Vicomte de Chagny. A stage hand at died because he had seen too much. A tenor had also lost his life when the Phantom demanded that his own opera be performed and had decided to take Ubaldo Piangi's role himself. Then the most horrendous incident, that very night as his opera was being performed, the chandelier had dropped onto the audience after Christine had unmasked him on stage, killing over a dozen people and nearly destroying the Opera.

I'd been told countless stories and the only difference I'd found was the appearance of the Opera Ghost. There were hundreds of eyewitnesses to that terrible night. I couldn't doubt his existence any longer.

I do not know how long I sat there, staring at the letter but not really seeing it, until my clock chimed and I glanced over. Eleven o'clock. I had an hour.

Wearily I stood and turned to the mirror. I was now certain that all the times I'd heard that soft brush of fabric, it had been  _him_  in the corridor on the other side of my mirror. I remembered hearing it all the nights I'd luxuriated in my bath after undressing fully in the lamplight, and my eyes slid closed in shame. He'd watched me as I'd undressed, as I'd bathed, after I'd stood from the tub and walked dripping water and suds to my robe.

I faced my closet. I had to wear something dark to blend in with the pitch blackness of the halls at this hour. The lavender skirts and white blouse I now wore would be easily visible.

I chose a black, scooped necked long sleeved gown that I'd worn to numerous funerals. As I undressed, I tried to forget about the fact that he was probably watching me. I defiantly turnedmy back to the mirror as I pulled the gown on and fastened it. A black traveling cloak with a deep hood would conceal me completely.

With my head held high and proud, I looked at the mirror, silently daring him, if he was looking, to come out to hurry me. Finally after whispering an unlady like curse, I turned and left.

The store rooms of the cafe were kept with very lax security, merely a simple lock that after agonizingly picking with a hairpin for a long moment came open with a quiet click. I sagged against the door in relief and quietly went in.

Moving silently among the shelves, I filled a basket I'd filched from the prop room with several thick loaves of bread, rounds of cheese, a large amount of mixed fruits, and three bottles of wine that I looked over carefully to check the year. I didn't want to risk it not being good enough for my invisible dictator.

Finally, I left, securing the lock behind me. No one stirred in the cavernous foyer. No one had noted my appearance. I fled quietly up the stairs and to my room.

When I unlocked the door, it was still and dark inside. The mirror stood eerily quiet. I set the basket down before the mirror and turned to face the wall. The clock struck midnight.

Behind me, I heard the mirror slide quietly open.

Then a voice, like the slide of silk across heated skin:

"I thought I instructed you to take your hair down."


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

I froze, rooted to the spot in which I stood , my world narrowed to a pinpoint: that voice and the order it had given.

I swallowed, my throat felt swollen and dry. I couldn't speak: I dared not.

Behind me came footsteps, slow and soft, almost silent, even on the hard wood floor. A moment later I felt the heat of another's body behind me. When I inhaled another desperate breath, the haunting scent of firewood wreathed my senses; birch, cedar, sandalwood, and candle smoke. I felt my knees begin to weaken, whether from fear or reaction to the unnerving prescence behind me, I knew not.

He repeated his demand: "Take your hair down." His voice was low and sensual, compelling to the point that I raised my trembling hands and lowered the hood of the cloak and reached for the first pins.

"No. Remove the cloak first." He stepped closer and I barely kept a low whimper from my throat. I felt more threatened by this stranger's presence than I ever had in Armand's. With Armand, I knew what he would do if provoked. With this shadow behind, I knew nothing.

My cold fingers fumbled at the clasp of my cloak until it flicked open and the heavy wool pooled at my feet. I reached up and resumed pulling out the pins.

As I removed each one and let it fall to the floor in the silent room, my mind worked furiously.  _I did what you asked!_  The basket sat untouched by the mirror still, why did he not simply take it and leave? Why put me through this ordeal? He had what he wanted, my obediance. Why torment me?

I heard his deep, even breathing behind me, low and resonant. No other sound betrayed him, he stood immobile.

The last pin fell from fingers. My hair lay heavy upon my shoulders and down my back. I waited for what he would do next with a painfully thundering heart. My bravado of earlier, my determination to not be weak, had been destroyed by this tense moment. I knew nothing would ever be the same again, it couldn't. We had irrevocably stepped onto this course. Neither of us could now ever forget the other existed.

Then he was against me, and I gasped, my first audible sound since his entrance into my world. The shock of his warm, hard body against my back, the steely strength of the solid muscles pressed to my shaking form and towering above my own considerable height made me feel suddenly small and weak. I wilted and felt every inch of steel that I cultivated so steadfastly into myself dissolve. His hands came and wrapped about my arms, clad in black leather, large broad palmed, long fingered hands that gripped with an iron force. I wondered numbly if I would be bruised tommorow.

He leaned in and I felt his hot breath against my cheek. He took a deep breath, his head down and against the side of my own. For a long moment neither of us moved. And then with a rough shove that made me cry out, he threw me against the bed, my hands catching myself, my face momentarily pushed into the coverlet. I waited, breathing harshly, for him to attack me, but when the clock on the dresser continued to tick away loudly in the silence, and nothing happened, I looked behind me.

He was gone, and so was the basket.

Eight o'clock the next morning found me in the costume room ahead of everyone else. The large room was silent, my only companions the dress forms wearing the _corps de ballet_  ensembles. I sat stitching a bodice together, my fingers working furiously, the down and through motion repeated over and over, a soothing rhythm. My spectacles were on, my face washed, my hair coiled back in a tight coronet, the dove gray morning gown a perfect accompaniment to my dark mood.

I was  _furious_  with myself! I had acted like a shrinking violet last night, going weak at a powerful man's touch, and not even defending myself when he had gripped me so forcefully.

When I had dressed myself that morning, I'd been in possession of bruises on my upper arms from his fingers. Looking at the huge mirror, I'd shrieked: "I hope you're terribly pleased with yourself, you bastard!" I hadn't had bruises on my body since I'd left Armand, and it disgusted me that through my own cursed uncharacteristic weakness last night, I was wearing them once more.  _If he dares uses force on me again, I'll set up the hue and cry and have the managers upon his wanted self, damn the consequences!_

But I knew that was truly not an option: to escape one vicious cur only to be thrown back to another who I knew would kill me was no escape at all. I would have to bend to the plot he had written me into. To do anything else was suicidal.

I looked about the room, my eyes lovingly caressing the costumes we'd created. I felt so fufilled in this. Even after last night, and the first moments of self-loathing of my reactions to the Opera Ghost,  _no_ ,to the very much a real man, I had still looked forward to coming down here and losing myself in the work. Madame Lefevre had been hinting at her retirement over the last couple of days, saying she still wanted to have a role, but give the reins of the department to younger hands, and I felt a rise of exhilaration at having control of this domain. I would follow the orders of my manipulative friend, in order to preserve this state of things, but I would be in control of my encounters with him. He could only make me weak and terrified if I allowed him to, and I was determined next time that I would hand him his request then calmly show him the door, or mirror, as it was.

Strange how in less than twenty fours hours, a being that I had merely dismissed as unimportant and irreverant had suddenly become the key stone in my life. I hated this invisible puppeteer with me as the marionet on his strings. How long would it be before I was made to perform again?

That evening, Jeanette, Marie, a couple of the cheeky, handsome stagehands they were courting about with asked me to join them for a stroll on the rooftop and a picnic beneath Apollo's Lyre. I granted their request knowing the real reason for the invitation was that Madam Lefevere saw the girls as daughters and would want a chaperone for the twins, but did not want to embarass them with her much older ways.

I climbed the many stairs behind them to the rooftop, my cloak over my arm just in case it was chilly, but once we came out onto the stone flags, we discoverd the evening was unseasonably warm with just a hint of a tart breeze. I laid my cloak aside over a gargoyle and strolled behind them, taking in the magnificent view.

I had never been up here before, and the sight of Paris spread beneath us, a thousand golden lights dispersed among it rooftops was breathtaking and romantic. I turned and watched each of the girls take the hand of their lad and begin to chat lightly. My own heart constricted slightly. I had tried so hard throughout our violent marriage to gently convince Armand to love me, but it had been useless. Even without his iron fists, he'd had tarts from one end of Paris to the other to warm his bed, and I'd always wondered if he'd treated them as he'd treated me.

Leaving them to wander, I made my way slowly to the statue of Apollo's Lyre. I craned my neck to stare up at the beautiful scupture, it's wings spread, the moon hanging appropriately directly over head. Feeling a childish burst of energy, I glanced about to see if the children were anywhere about, and then hiked my skirts and began to climb. When I reached the spread of the wings, I threw my legs over one and sat, brushing the loose strands of hair out of my face. I smiled and laughed into the cool night air, feeling like I did when I was twelve and had climbed up into the tree outside of my parents town home in Paris and had waved to all the passing couples, throughly scandalizing my mother.

_Hmm, it was so long ago_. I propped my chin upon my clasped hands and stared at the moon. What I would have given to be that child once more, with no troubles beyond teasing the cat and climbing trees, before I'd turned my majority and had had to be trained to be a decourous young woman who would make the perfect wife and hostess. When I'd turned sixteen the fun had stopped. I was attending finishing school, was trotted out in front of guests to display my skills upon the piano forte and my mediocre voice, hoping to catch the eye of a distinguished household with a marriageable son. I'd been eighteen when finally a family had walked into our home for dinner one night and walking behind them was the most handsome man I'd ever laid eyes on. Tall, broad shouldered, urbane, with glossy chestnut hair combed just  _such_ , a debonaire mustache trimmed perfectly, cool pale blue gray eyes and a toothy smile that could have charmed the habit off a nun. My shallow young heart had instantly fallen in love with that beautiful exterior, never dreaming of whatmightlie beneath. If I'd paid closer attention, I would have seen the cold, cruel glint to his father's eyes, the lavacious looks his mother cast at my father with _my_  mother sitting right there. But I hadn't. I'd given my love, my trust, and my hand to him blindly and had paid dearly for it.

Below me I heard a door shut softly and I closed my eyes in self reproach. The twins had left along with their beaus. They'd probably looked for me but had been unable to find me.

I sighed and made to swing my legs down to begin the climb down the statue when I heard the door shut again, I glanced up, expecting to see one of the girls, but instead there was a man.

He walked slowly toward the edge of the rooftop, his movements graceful and controlled. From my view I saw the top of his head and shoulders, his hair a deep brown, almost black combed back and gleaming until it waved slightly above hisstark white collar. He wore an elegant black cloak that hung about him to perfection, fairly screaming that it was expensive. When he turned I caught a glimpse of his left side. He had a face that made even my hardened heart want to sigh in pure feminine appreciation. He was nothing short of beautiful, his bones classical and well defined, his chin clefted, his lips curved in a sensual smirk. Lips that immediately brought to mind long, drugging, heated kisses. He wore a rich coat of dark black that my trained eyes immediately noted as very high caliber Bath superfine. His waistcoat was a deep deep burgundy satin brocade, a black cravat tucked in just so.

My brow furrowed; the suit looked very familiar.

Then he turned to his right, and the moonlight hit upon a white porcelein mask covering the other half of his face.

I gasped from my perch.  _It was him!_

Too late I realized my mistake: he turned and looked up directly into my face high above him. And he smiled, the visible corner of his lips lifting in a sensual, knowing smirk.

"Good evening, Mademoiselle Genevieve."


	10. Chapter Nine

**Chapter 9**

For several long moments in which neither of us spoke, I stared down at his still form, the black of his clothing a stark contrast against the white of the mask, and the paleness of his skin. He did not look away but unnervingly, and with absolute unwavering focus stared up at me, his sinful mouth still formed into that smirk.

My mind desperately casting about for alternatives, I looked wildly around the rooftop; there was no other option but to go down. I had unwittingly put myself into the position of the mouse in this wicked game of his that he was intent upon playing out.

Taking a breath, mentally berating myself, I began to climb down, at one point my hand slipping and crying out foolishly before maintaining my grip.

Finally my feet touched solid ground, and I took a moment, my eyes fixed unseeing on the smooth stone of the statue, to smooth my skirts and sweep a loose curl behind my ear.  _He can only intimidate you if_ you _give him the power to._ With that mantra repeated throughout my head, I turned to face him.

And found him no more thanscant inches in front of me.

I stepped back with a startled gasp and he merely stepped forward.  _How had he moved so quickly and quietly?_

He raised his visible brow in a mocking gesture and waited, as still as death itself.

I took a deep breath, willing myself to calm, but his scent drifted through my head once more and I lost my focus. I shook my head slightly and looked him in his eyes, preparing to give him a thorough verbal thrashing, but lost my train of thought.  _He had beautiful eyes_.

Before I could gather my wits once more and speak, he did so first:

"How...fortunate...that we meet again so soon, Mademoiselle Genevieve. It appears that I may not have to write that letter after all." His voice was low and seemed to seep into my senses, every word that of a gentleman, every word containing a promise of a threat.

Tilting my chin at a stubborn angle, looking up at him, while trying to look _down_ at him, I spoke, hoping some of my so very rapidly depleting steel would come through my voice:

"What do you want, Monsieur?" I stared at him, hard, feeling the self-righteous anger beginnning to bloom again.  _He can only intimidate you if you give him to power to._

I would do what he said, but I would  _not_  do it lying down.

He narrowed his eyes and his face hardened. He stepped even closer and my breath left my body in a  _whoosh_ as his frame once again pressed to mine. I closed my eyes ashamed of the fact that even after all I'd gone through with Armand, I could still be intimidated by sheer size and strength, and though I was a tall woman and by no means a frail creature, he stood several inches over me and was twice as wide, no doubt every inch of it lean muscle and solid bone.

"I would  _think_  that by now, Mademoiselle, that would be clear to you. You don't strike me as a stupid woman. Do not make me alter my perceptions." His breath was a hot assault against my face and I kept my eyes closed, feeling all the while like the scared girl of twenty I'd been when Armand first began to show his true colors. I began to shiver.

Suddenly I was bereft of the heat of his body, and I opened my eyes to see if he had grown tired of my timidity, but found him striding back to me, his movements catlike and powerful at the same time, seeming to move to a music only he could hear. My cloak was tossed over his arm. He whipped it out and flung it at me. I reached to catch it, but my hands clapped in mid-air, the cloak having fallen short by bare inches and when I looked at him, I understood that he hadn't meant to have me catch it. I felt the hot sting of tears at the back of my eyes and I kneeled before him to pick up the cloak and wrap it numbly about me. I felt like nothing more than a fool.

He began to circle me, slowly. I lifted my eyes to his, but didn't follow his gaze as he came around behind me. I felt him stop. Neither of us moved. My heart was pounding and I felt like each breath was a monumental undertaking. I knew what the mouse felt like when stared down by the hungry cat. My mantra of earlier seemed to do me no good now. It was impossible to take the upper hand now, I had shown too much fear and once again I wondered where the confident Genevieve who had taken the reins of her new life so well had gone.  _She's fled with her tail tucked between her legs, that's where._

My heart took up its race with even more determination when I felt the slide of his body against my own once more.  _What was his game?_  I did not honestly believe that he wanted me in any carnal sense. It seemed much more likely that he was using the physical as a means to intimidate.

His breath was warm and directly against me. When next he spoke, I felt the almost imperceptible movement of his lips against my ear:

"I think, my dear, that I know what I shall be needing next. A task which, I'm certain, you are more than capable of handling." He stepped closer, if it was even possible and his hands came up, grasping my hips on either side. Even through my cloak and gown and petticoat, I felt the force of his grip. He turned me toward him and I found myself staring at his mmaculate cravat.

A gloved hand raised my chin to look at him. I closed my eyes, shutting them tightly. One hand moved to the small of my back, and I once again had the hateful sensation of being small.

"Open your eyes." The command was soft, but there was no doubt in my mind that it was an order to be obeyed. I slowly opened them and raised my gaze to him. I let my hate for him show. He smiled, a slow, devastating smile that contained no real touch of warmth. It was a smile that made me feel cold down to my bones. "That's better." He removed the hand from my chin and brushed back a strand of my hair. I barely restrained my reaction to his touch.

"Now, this is what you will do." And just like the night before, his voice lowered, became compelling, giving meevery hintthat if I refused him, there would be hell to pay.

"I find myself lacking in clothing. The mass of idiots that worked at this Opera House last fall nearly destroyed everything I owned. I've had to wear tattered clothing, which I find unacceptable." He moved even closer and I could no longer even breathe without my breasts pressing to his chest in mock intimacy.

"Therefore, my industrious little seamstress,I want you to create for me four suits, much like the one I am currently wearing which your capable hands made. Four waistcoats, one black, one forest, one dark gold, one navy. Each suit will include a shirt to be made exactly like this one, and four cravats as well, black. You will also procure for me two sets of gold cuff links and one cravat pin, also gold. And I believe, one more set of gloves, much like these." He lifted the hand at my waist and trailed one finger down my temple and to my lips. "Leather, the finest you can manage." My eyes slid closed as his thumb swept across my bottom lip. I caught myself, and reopened them glaring at him.

He chuckled softly, an altogether menacing sound. "We all let our masks slip, don't we, Genn." He lowered his head, his eyes becoming dark and glinting beneath his heavy lids. I knew he was going to kiss me and I traitorously felt my eyes slide slowly closed and my lips soften.

When his lips were but a bare touch away from mine, and I found myself wondering what I would do if he made to take me on the roof top, he whispered, "Au revoir, mademoiselle." And he shoved me away. I stumbled and tripped on my skirts landing hard on my bottom. When I looked up in outrage at his audacity, he was gone.

I stood, brushing my cloak and skirts, my breath slowly coming back, my heart calming, and I realized with shock that I didn't know whether I was relieved or disappointed that he had not closed the distance between my mouth and his.

I covered my mouth, holding back a sob.  _Why me? Why did you choose me to manipulate?_

As I sunk to the cold ground and began to sob aloud I realized that I was the only one who had a past that he could use. I had stepped into this Opera house, the perfect pawn in his game.

I wondered where this could possibly lead and to what consequences.

Marie and Jeanette found me in the hallway outside my chamber, pulling the key from my cloak.

My hair was mussed and my face was still flushed from crying in the air that had rapidly chilled since _he_  had left me. I raised my red rimmed eyes to them. They came forward with a concerned cry.

"Genevieve! What ever is the matter?" Marie took my cold hands between her warm ones and gently squeezed.

"You look terrible! Have you been crying!" Jeanette came behind her sister, putting her hands on Marie's arms. I looked into their innocent cornflower blue eyes and knew I couldn't taint them with devastating events of the night out of their presence. I took a breath and plastered a sunny smile on my face.

"Oh, no! I'm perfectly fine! I'm afraid that after you left with your beaus, it turned quite windy and chilly. It fairly burned my eyes. But the view was so lovely, I didn't want to leave."

I finished, sighing happily while inside I was groaning at how contrived the story sounded. But both the girls, so artless and innocent of the deception of others, immediately brightened and exclaimed over how happy they were that I was not upset.

"Oh, but Genevieve, you missed dinner. We took our picnic to the cafe after we could not find you, and I'm afraid Jean and Pierre ate your portion."

I was hungry, but the Opera cafe was already closed at this late hour and I did not have the stomach to steal for myself. I would have to remain hungry until morning when I could go down and have my habitual coffee and brioche. I smiled and reassured the twins that I would be fine. They reluctantly left me to seek their own beds at the other end of the corridor and I wearily turned into my room.

My eyes were immediately drawn to the dresser where a plate sat, a chunk of bread, a wedge of cheese, and some grapes arranged upon it, with a glass of red wine sat beside. A black edged envelope and a rose sat propped against the glass.

_I could not allow my favorite seamstress to become weak with hunger, now could I?_

_O.G._


	11. Chapter Ten

**Chapter 10**

I awoke slowly the next morning, my eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness of the room. I glanced over and looked at the clock. 7 o'clock, but it was Sunday and we were to be given a day of rest and relaxation today. I had no need to rush to the costume department.

I stretched over and turned up the small gas lamp by my bedside and the room filled with the soft glow. Flopping onto my back, I kicked off the sheets and stared at the ceiling. It had been a long, restless night. I'd tossed and turned frequently in my little bed, until the linens had wound up tight about me and I'd had to wake and untangle my long limbs from the winding sheets. My thin cotton shift was hiked up to my upper thighs from the battle with my sleepless night. I felt no inclination to move. No inclination to get up and start on the task which I knew lay before me. It was my day off, but I would be sewing today.

I mumbled several curses under my breath thinking of the night before. I'd once again given in to my hateful weak side and simply stood before him, trembling, letting him give me my orders as I was nothing more than the slave, he the pasha. Even worse, last night, in my sleep, I'd dreamed of him.

And not dreams of tossing him off that roof and letting him make his own bloody suits.

Of all the disgusting, loathesome things my mind could have dreampt up, this was undoubtedly the worst.

In my dreams, I'd been sleeping and he'd come in the room, silently through the mirror and stood over me until I awoke. Once I was looking at him, he ordered me to undress in that low, compelling voice, and I'd obeyed blindly without thought. The rest of the dream followed as suit, with us writhing on the bed, him dominant and forceful, me weak and gasping with pleasure. When I'd awoken, I'd nearly ordered a bath, so disgusted I was with myself.

I'd never dreamed of making love to a man before. God knows I'd never even exprerienced the act. Every intimate moment of my marriage had been forced upon me without my even having a chance to ready myself. I'd never lain and moaned and gasped with ecstacy; I didn't even know what it felt like in relation to a man.

Why I dreamed of him, I knew not. Perhaps it was the way he had touched me last night on the rooftop. I'd rarely been held or caressed before, it had been something I'd enjoyed, despite my shame over it. And when he had nearly kissed me, I'd found myself anticipating the press of his lips, the sweep of his tounge. When it hadn't happened, I'd had to be honest with myself later, and admit that I'd wanted it. No doubt after the kiss, I probably would have struck him for his audacity, but never the less...

_You can't just lay here all day!_  I finally sat up and swung my bare legs over the bed, standing and letting my shift slide back to my ankles. I glanced over at the dresser and and the empty plate and wine glass that sat there. Another mystery: why, after toying with me on the rooftop and then viciously throwing me to the ground, did he bring me some of his own food and wine? He truly couldn't be concerned over my well being could he?

_Of course, he can you stupid woman! You can't verywell makehis precious suits if you're fading away, now can you?_

"Bastard," I spat at the plate. Let him take his false kindness elsewhere.

_You ate the food and drank the wine._

Of course I did! I might as well have, seeing as how if I didn't, he probably would have stormed in and forced it down my throat after the trouble he went through to bring it.

Turning away from the plate, I gazed at the wall mirror. Walking over, I sunk and kneeled before it, before settling on my ankles. I looked at myself.

My hair lay heavy about my shoulders and to my waist, tossled about my head. My pale brown eyes which usually bright and clear in my face, smudged underneath with dark circles. My pale oval face was even more pale this morning as it had been for the past couple of days. The thin smattering of childish freckles, which I had always hated, now stood out in stark relief. My narrow thin nose was slightly swollen from crying last night, and my lips were swollen for an odd reason, probably from my dream. Over the low cut of my shift I could see the returning swells of my breasts from eating so well over the last two weeks, but my collar bone still appeared sharp, the hollows of my throat clearly visible. I looked awful.

Who had I become? The last two days had been so hard on me after two weeks of contented living here at the Opera. I had barely slept, and when I did, disturbing images like the dream of last night entered my mind. The fight had gone out of my eyes and the steel had left my backbone. I worried constantly what would happen if I didn't please this mysterious man who now controlled my fate. I wondered if he knew what he was doing to me?

Gazing back into the mirror, my face set into hard lines. Today was my day off, and here I was, about to go out and use my own money that I'd worked so hard for over the last weeks to buy material and  _golden_  cufflinks and a  _golden_ cravat pin in order to turn him out in style. I wanted to stomp my feet and cry like a child. But I wouldn't. If this was what it took to live my life in any semblance of peace, than this is what I would do.

I stood and got dressed.

An hour later, after breakfasting in the cafe, skipping the brioche and settling for a day old croissant instead to make sure I had enough funds to buy his highness' list of demands, I left for the shops scattered among the streets of Paris. I had decided that I would have to buy the material for his suits: I would  _not_  steal from the Opera in order to clothe him.

In a modiste's supply shop, I purchased several yards of black Bath superfine, crisp white linen, and four colors of brocade, with a small amount of black satin lining to back the waistcoats with. The materials came to a ridiculous amount, but once I mentioned that I was the assistant to Madame Lefevre, a good friend of the older lady keeping the shop, she gave me a generous discount and an order to give her old companion a greeting. I left, with about three quarters of my nest egg gone.

I continued on my way, carrying the brown parcel of material under one arm and directions to a men's shop in my hand.

The spicy sent of pipe smoke greeted me as I entered the small shop, and I suddenly realized the risk I was taking in order to buy my Phantom his more expensive pieces.

The shop contained a handful of well dressed gentlemen milling about, talking and selecting pieces from the various cases. I recognized a few of them as acquaintences of Armand's, two of them were from noble houses who had frequented our drawing room many at time.

The minute the door had tinkled above me, they had all glanced my way. I lowered my head, my heart pounding furiously in my throat. I demurely walked into the shop, keeping my eyes lowered behind my spectacles. The dress I wore, thankfully, was a very simple blue walking dress, more in keeping with a merchant's wife or clergyman's wife rather than that of a noblewoman. My hair was bound back tightly underneath the matching bonnet I wore, and when they all glanced away after their eyes roved my figure, I barely restrained my sigh of relief.

I walked to the case of cufflinks, keeping my eyes downcast. A young clerk appeared at my side and gestured to the parcel.

"May I take that for you, madame?"

"Yes, thank you," I said softly, raising my eyes to his to give him a smile. He nodded and took the package behind the counter.

"May I help you madame?" Another clerk this one older, approached from behind the counter. I raised my head and smiled slightly, keeping my body turned away from the gentlemen behind me.

"Yes, I need two pairs of gold cufflinks, Monsieur." He removed a tray from the case and laid it atop the counter. I stared down at them, not knowing which ones to choose. The cufflinks I'd supplied for the suit I'd shown the managers had been simple ones, flat gold disks. I'd seem them winking in the moonlight last night when the masked man had raised his gloved hand to caress my cheek. Glancing about, I found ones of the same style. I pointed. "Two pairs of those, please."

"Right away." He took the small pieces and wrapped them securely in tissue paper then slipped them into black velvet boxes. "Will there be anything else, madame?"

I gave him my request for a plain, gold cravat pin and he supplied that as well, packaging it in the same black velvet box.

When he gave me my total, I blanched. I was short by five small francs! I searched frantically through the small reticule I carried, but I could find no other monies. I looked up embarassed, into his disapproving eyes. "I think I'll have to put back one pair of the links."

He frowned and began unwrapping them.

Suddenly a white gloved hand stayed him.

"Wait. Let me take care of it for the lady."

I turned and looked into the soft green eyes of Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny. He smiled gently at me, and pulled a five franc note from his wallet and handed it to the clerk, then handed me the small black box. "I hope your husband enjoys it, Madame." With that, he gave me a very correct bow and left my side to go back over to his friends. But as I was quickly asking for my parcel so I could leave as soon as possible and get out of the shop - Raoul was the younger brother of Phillipe, the Comte de Chagny, a good friend of Armand's - he turned back to me, a curious expression on his face. I froze. He began to walk back over. The clerk handed me my parcel of material, and I took it quickly and rushed to the door, throwing a thanks over my shoulder to Raoul. When I looked back, he was following me, the curious look turning to one of concern. I burst out of the door, my heart beginning to race again and hurried down the street as fast as I could.

A hand grabbed me and turned me about. I gasped, ready to see the anger in his face that Armand de Bouvieux's former wife had dared to show herself in public after the scandal.

"You left your reticule, madame." He held out my small bag and I gingerly took it from him, my cheeks turning scarlet, embarassed as I had never been before. I met his gaze and smiled gently, keeping my voice low and submissive.

"Th..thank you, my lord." I curtsied before him and then turned to hurry off back to the Opera, leaving the young man behind me with a very perplexed look on his face.

I entered the Opera House, which was silent and empty, all the staff gone to enjoy the day. I sagged wearily onto the steps of the Grand Staircase.

I knew how fortunate I had been that Raoul had not recognized me. He had been to our house many a time with his older brother. The last time he'd brought a beautiful, delicate looking young lady who he introduced as his wife. I hadn't at the time made the connection between Christine and the scandal surrounding the Opera House. Armand had forbade me having friends and reading the news sheets. He had constantly said that knowledge was useless to a woman. I still remember the way Christine had looked at me after Armand had verbally scolded me for asking a question at the dinner table. Her doe brown eyes had softened toward me and she'd looked at me so sadly, I'd shook my head slightly. There was no point in her coming to my defense: it would only make things worse on me later. As it was that night Armand had beat me withinan inch of my life than used me until I had not been able to walk the next day. It was one of the last fights before I'd had that fateful meeting with my lawyer.

Remembering my screams of agony that night, I grew more and more upset as I thought about the risk that I had taken to get the Opera Ghost's materials for his suits.

When I made my way to my room and found him there, reclining on  _my_ bed, all my fear of him left me.

"I see you've returned from your little shopping trip, my dear Genn. I take that you will start on my list as soon as possible." With his one hand toying with mytiny bottles of oil and the other behind his head on my pillow, he gave me thatknowing smirk with those sinful lips and I felt the dam break.

Shrieking, I threw the parcels at his accursed head.

"You make your own suits, you arrogant bastard!"


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Chapter 11**

 

He ducked and stared with a unbelieving look at the parcels on the floor. Then he slowly turned toward me, his long frame still stretched out on the bed. He was wearing immaculate black trousers, a white lawn frilled shirt tucked in but the first several buttons undone and for a moment, I stared at the exposed V of broad muscular chest and dark, crisp curling hair. I'd never seen a man's bare chest: Armand had always had me with his clothes still on and never bothered to even remove his trousers. It had felt even more insulting and cruel somehow.

I shook my head, the memories dissapating, and I strode into the room, slamming the door shut behind me. His face turned hard and he moved to stand up, no doubt to push me to some wall, and intimidate me with his nearness. I held up a restraining hand.

"No, please don't trouble yourself on my part! I mean to make your dear suits, but I should think that you would find it interesting that I met your good friend, Raoul de Chagny in the shop where I bought your cufflinks and pin." I turned away from him, breathing hard, removing my bonnet and resting it on a shelf in my wardrobe. When I turned back, he was behind me, the visible side of his face as hard and cold as the masked one. He stepped close, looming over me and I caught his exotic scent, but I stepped around him before it could intoxicate me. He followed, gripping my elbow and turning me roughly to him.

"Was Christine with him?" He asked, his eyes blazing hot.

"No, she was not, he was alone." I shrugged away from him angrily. I unbuttoned the jacket of my walking dress and slipped it off my shoulders. My arms became caught, though and he came behind me and removed it completely. "Thank you." Then,I whirled back to him realizing what he'd done. "Don't you help me!" I ripped the jacket out of his grasp and took it to the wardrobe, hanging it up and sending the wooden hangers swinging wildly. "Incidentally, Raoul's older brother is a very close acquaintance of my former husband's. Do you know what would have happened if he had recognized me? You would have been without your little puppett and I would have been dead by night fall." I took a deep breath after my little tirade and turned to find him, an ironic expression on his beautiful face.

"A wife is no good to her husband if she's dead." He smirked, his lips forming that expression that made my lips throb at the same time it made my palms itch.

"Believe me, monsieur. I would be  _best_  dead to my husband. I humiliated him when I left him." I turned toward the bed and sat, to begin unwrapping my parcels. It would be best to start today, the sooner I would be able to hand him the suits and be done with him, albeit temporarily. I couldn't help but notice his scent lingered in the warmth of the sheets, and my dream came unbidden to my mind.

"Any husband who is cuckolded by his wife would be humiliated," he said scornfully.

My head snapped up. "Cuckolded?" I whispered.

"Why else would you divorce a  _handsome_ ," he spat the word," wealthy husband who could give you anything you wanted if not for a lover. Did your lover scorn you and your little divorce was in vain?" He smiled coldly, his voicegoing contemptuous.

I stood and slowly walked to him. Once I stood before him I struck him across the cheek as hard as I could. The slap of palm against flesh rang out in the room.

I was breathing raggedly and when he snarled and lunged to attack me I stopped him with my next words:

"You don't _know_ me. Don't you presume to think I was  _ever_  unfaithful to Armand! Even ifI had wanted, I would have never had the chance! I was a prisoner in that _handsome_ , wealthy man's home. I divorced him because of his treatment of me."

I turned back to the bed, outrage and sorrow that many shared his misapprehension. No one except for the servants who would find me bloody and unconcious believed me.

From behind, I was pulled and slammed back into his chest, his breath hot in my ear.

"Do not ever raise your hand to me again if you value your life." He spoke through gritted teeth and I turned around to face him, breaking free of his grasp . I raised my eyes to him, to tell him the truth of what was the reality of my marriage to Armand, but the haunted look in his gold-green eyes, a strange vulerablility that I'd never dreamed existed, and the red print of my hand on his chiseled face stopped me.

I raised my hand hesitantly and touched his cheek, laying my palm along the masculine curve.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you." His cheek was warm and smooth under my hand. Armand had never let me touch him like this, and the intimacy of the moment made me suddenly nervous and I dropped my hand.

A strange light moved through the depths of his eyes before sinking below again. His jaw hardened and a tick appeared in his cheek.

"Don't you think that it's time you begin on my suits? You wouldn't wantme disappointed now, would you?" With that he left, the mirror sliding open at a touch of his hand that I didn't even register, and he was gone.

I looked at the piles of fabric on the bed and wondered who had really won this clash of wills.

That night, after having a light supper at the cafe, I found myself in the costume room alone with only a lamp for company, carefully stitching together a forest green satin brocade waistcoat for my Phantom. I had finished the other three earlier and they sat at my elbow, a neat pile of glistening antique gold, navy and black. The trousers, tailcoats, and shirts I would finish later.

Soon the green waistcoat was done as well, and I arranged it on top of the others. Across the room, I got a glimpse of myself. Since there was no one about, I'd let my hair down out of the painful coiffure it had been in, pinning it back from my face loosely. My eyes were bloodshot from staring at the stitching for the last several hours and a headache pounded at my temples.

I wanted nothing more than to crawl into my warm little bed down the corridor and sink into a dreamless sleep. With no images of a dark, enigmatic masked man who both frightened and drew me, roused in me fear, anger, and the unfamiliar and unexplored desire to know physical joys..

I closed my eyes and for one moment allowed myself to think about what it would be like to have a man touch me with _my_  pleasure in mind, to hold me under him, and kiss me, caress me, until I knew that my body could accept his invasion, and then surrender to him. Would I simply lay there and languish in it, or would I take an active role and maybe plead for him to love me in different ways. The thought of it, of actually giving myself willingly and letting someone so intimately know me was a frightening thought. Deep down, I knew that I could never forget the pain of what I'd experienced in Armand's bed.

When I opened my eyes, I noted that it was almost midnight. With a sigh, I gathered my materials and finished garments, turned down the lamp and left the room.

Once in my room, I undressed with the lamp turned downand slipped into my bed.

When I dreampt, it was of a strong body surrounding me in utter darkness, loving me, and the smell of wood and candlesmoke and spice scenting the air.


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Chapter 12**

The following morning found Jeanette, Marie, Madame Lefevre, and myself sitting comfortably in the auditorium, watching the first round of dress rehearsals.

We sat toward the back, to better see the result of our work on the stage. It was critical to observe if the garments moved and hung the correct way. Especially the dancers whose movements could be greatly hampered by an ill fitting ensemble.

The ballet department was on stage, swirling about, their movements graceful and precise. Long slender arms curved sensually, tiny feet rose into impossible  _pointes_ , long legs were posed behind their willowly frames in such manners, that I wondered if I could ever form my own body to work in such a way. I pictured my tall self trying to leap and swirl about the stage, and choked back a laugh. I would dwarf the petite little dancers by several inches.

The fruit of our labors moved about beautifully, the aqua chiffon floating through the air before settling after each movement. The scarlet sashes were an especially visual touch as La Sorelli and her partner danced a stunning sensual  _pas de deux_ upon the stage and she threaded the fabric through her long arms and about his neck.

Beside me, Jeanette giggled into her hand as the two dancers twined their bodies together at one point. I glanced over at her and eyed her over my spectacles. She giggled again.

"What," I whispered in my best censorious voice, "is so very entertaining?" I arched a brow at her and she leaned with a conspirational look on her face.

"Marie kissed Phillipe de Crux last night on the rooftop. She said he's a horrible kisser." She leaned closer, he face lighting with unholy glee. "He shoved his tongue down her throat and she fairly gagged." She collapsed back into her chair with waterfall of musical giggles.

My widened eyes found Marie's, who blushed deeply. I reached over and pulled the girl's face back to my gaze.

"Marie!" I hissed, "That's what you get for kissing men you barely know, you wicked girl!" But I could barely breathe I was restraining so much laughter. I remember being sixteen and sneaking a kiss from a sinfully handsome stable boy at my parent's chateau in the country and he'd done the same thing. My reaction had been much the same.  _My first kiss._  Not something to immortalize forever, no doubt.

On the stage, there was a clearing of throats as Msrs. Firmin and Andre strode onto the stage with a fretful Monsieur Reyer behind him. I raised my brows at Madame Lefevre and she shrugged her shoulders in a wondering gesture.

"May I have all your attention please? Please, up here. Thank you." Monsieur Andre strutted to the edge of the stage looking like nothing more than a rooster with that pompadour he wore his hair in. "As you know, when the, ahem,  _events_  of last year took place, we lost a great deal of our patronage. Indeed, most of it. But recently Msr. Firmin and myself were approached by two worthy gentlemen who would very much like to be the charter patrons of this rebirth of the Opera Populaire!" He finished with a dramatic flourish, and the auditorium broke out in applause. I heard the nasal voice of La Carlotta lash out: "It's about time!"

Monsieur Richard stepped up beside Monsieur Andre. "Yes, such good news! When the Opera opens it doors for the first time for this new season in two weeks, sitting in the Grand Tier Boxes will be two of our society's most estimable nobleman with a generous backing for the next two years!"

Around us, applause rang out again. I sat still in my seat, my mirth of earlier forgotten.

_Please don't let Armand be one of them._

Later, the four of us were on stage ourselves, Marie and Jeanette fitting the bodice of the alto while she sang her aria, Madame adjusting a headdress of one of the tenors, and myself in the enviable position of kneeling before Carlotta Guidacelli, hemming the train that she'd just stepped on and torn, blaming it on another, of course.

I sat on my knees my dove gray skirts spread about me, in stark contrast to the vivid rose of the gown I was repairing. Above me, Carlotta made sniping comments about the alto who was singing, not even attempting to keep her voice low as not to be heard.

I bit down hard onto my lip to keep from telling her to quiet. Madame Antoinette Jean's voice was low, pleasant, and rich to listen to. Carlotta could do with biting her tongue and listening herself. Her own singing was tolerable enough, but at some points, I surely believed my ears would begin bleeding.

Above me she stopped backbiting for one moment and looked down at my form below her.

"You take too long, why? I have things to do."

I closed my eyes, breathing deeply and then looking up at her. "Madame, I'm afraid your hem was torn rather raggedly. It's not a clean stitching. I shall be done here in a moment." I looked back down at my work. She stamped her foot without warning, jarring my hands, and the needle ripped into my finger, sending blood spraying.

I clutched my hand with a cry, holding down the ripped section of skin, and pressing to stop the blood flow.  _Damn her!_

Above me, Carlotta swooped down and slapped the side of my face harshly, screaming about ruining her gown.

I was on my feet in an instant. She took a step back from me, forgetting my height, and clutching the arm of the maid behind her. I stepped up to where I was eye to eye with her.

"How dare you!" I hissed quietly in her face, as not toattract attention. "I told you to be patient! If you had not moved, as I'd warned you  _not_ to, this wouldn't have happened." I shoved my blood dripping fingers below her eyes and she blanched at the amount. My hand was throbbing mercilessly. "And I made that dress, Madame, and I can certainly fix it, but you'll have to just  _wait_  because I need to do some stitching on my  _flesh!_ "

Suprisingly, no one had noticed the interaction except for her maid who handed her the small white poodle to calm her.

She mumbled, "I..I didn't mean to harm you." She appeared almost sorry for a moment.

I gave an exapserated low scream and turned, stalking off the stage, with blood trailing behind me.

In the empty costume room, I took a basin of cool water set into an alcove for accidents of the like and poured a large amount into a small bowl and carried it over to a table. I sunk my hands into the bowl and thewater turned scarlet with my blood. I winced as the ragged tear in my finger caught against my other hand, and more blood filled the bowl.

After washing off all the blood, I lifted my hand and examined the two inch long rip in the seam of my skin on my finger. Thankfully it had been my left hand injured and not my right. With many costumes left to make and alter and my own midnight oil that I burned making my blackmailer's suits, I couldn't suffer having my good hand damaged.

I gathered a pair of tiny scissors, delicate but strong black thread, and a needle with a razor sharp point. I had no time to go to a doctor to have my finger stitched; my depletion of funds did not help either; a doctor cost money.

I stared with apprehension at the gruesome task before me, but I picked up the needle, steeling myself, and began to thread it.

A leather clad hand stayed mine and took the needle from myfingersand laid it down.

"Let me, mademoiselle." He said, soft and low behind me. I glanced up, my pulse traitorously picking up speed as he lowered himself to the chair beside me, clad in elegant black and crimson,his masked face sensually beautiful in the low lamp light. He smiled slightly, just a curving of his lips, but enough to make my heart turn in my chest.

"You'll get blood on your suit," I said quietly, letting my eyes meet his. He leaned forward slightly and gently removed my spectacles from my face and set them aside.

"What a tragedy that would be, since your very capable hands made it." He stood and removed his leather gloves one by one, laying them on a chair behind them. "I suppose them I should be in my shirtsleeves." He reached up and unpinned the black cravat, and undid the intricate folds of material until it fell from around his neck.

I kept my eyes on a point below his chin, almost unseeing. "Yes, I suppose you should." My own voice had become low and soft as I watched him remove his tails, the movement of him leaning his arms back causing the waist coat and white shirt to stretch tight across the broad expanse of his chest. He undid the waistcoat, and slipped it off, then unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up his forearms. I studied beneath my lashes the first sight of his ungloved hands.  
They were large, but with long beautiful fingers, strong joints, and connected to masculine wrists.

He sat backdown once he had removed all but his shirt and gently took my injured hand in his, examining the wound. I prayed that he wouldn't feel my pulse fluttering beneath his thumb, which caressed my wrist as he turned my hand this way and that.

He looked up at me, his eyes filled with a fleeting emotion I couldn't place.

"You're fortunate the needle did not become lodged and break off underneath the skin. I would have to perform minor surgery. As it is, this is going to be uncomfortable. I can bring something to dull the pain."

I shook my head. I'd endured stitchings before with no laudauman.

"Brave girl," he whispered and reached out a finger to trail down my cheek. I quelled my reaction, but barely.

With that, he reached for the needle and holding my hand firmly, began to sew the ragged edges of skin together. I winced slightly as the needle pricked the tender flesh, but he crooned softly to me and tenderly stroked my wrist with his thumb as he worked.

When he was done, he snipped the thread off with the scissors and raised my hand to press a kiss in my palm. I almost moaned.

He stood, reached for my spectacles and gently put them back on my face. I adjusted them, not wanting to meet his gaze for a moment until I had composed myself.

He shrugged gracefully into hiswaistcoat and buttoned it back up. As he dressed, I was aware that his eyes never left my face. As he once again donned the black leather gloves, the air in the room seemed to chill once more. I looked up at him, and saw the familiar cold, assessing gaze with just a touch of heat return to his gold green eyes. He smirked icily, and stepped around me, heading toward the large mirror at the other side of the costume room.

"Now, Mademoiselle Genn, I think it best that you return to my stage and finish your duties. Afterall," he tossed over his shoulder, only revealing the cold, white mask and masculine jaw, "you have a great deal of sewing to do tonight, don't you?"

He raised his hand to activate the mechanism which I never managed to see.

I stopped him by standing up and asking him a question:

"What is your name?" I whispered it softly.

He did not move for several long moments, but then met my eyes in the mirror.

"Erik."

And he was gone.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Chapter Thirteen**

I sat on the floor of my room, in my thread bare dressing gown and shift until the strike of midnight, completing the last of his shirts, the linen crisp, the dress ruffles precise and falling softly. When worn alone, the opening of the shirt would part to the very bottom edge of his chest, when worn with the waistcoats and cravats, it would come to his throat, exactly as the shirt I had sewn for my interview with the Opera did. The shirt he now had in his possession.

_Erik._

I whispered his name softly into the room, my fingers momentarily holding the shirt close. In only a few days, the fabric would hold his warmth and his scent.

I met my eyes in the mirror. Why did he have this effect on my person? When out of his presence, I remembered the fact that he was a murderer, an extortionist, and that he held my life in his hands and could destroy it if he so chose. But when he stood near me, I seemed to forget, as if the knowledge had never been mine to begin with. My mind rebelled against being affected by him, but my body obeyed my senses. I was not in love with him, not by any stretch. But I could no longer deny that he made me feel things that I never had, crave things I'd never known, want what I could never experience.

I could never love another man. I wasn't a complete woman and I never would be. There was a dark, empty void inside of myself that Armand had created. He had taken my love, my innocence as a young bride, and twisted it, taking my soul along with it, and then had handed it back to me, a broken thing. Ten years of struggling to not anger him, to respond to him as a wife should, and failing had completely destroyed my ability to let myself love another. The thought of making myself vulnerable to any man, whether physically or emotionally, terrified me.

I thought of Erik, bent over my hand, his dark hair glossy in the glow of the lamp, his lips set in concentration, the slight lines around his eyes deepened by his intent, the sight of his chest, revealed by the gaping shirt, rising and falling in time with his slow breaths. Then the way he had raised my palm to his lips, the press of their firm warmth, the slight, moist sensation of his hot breath as he'd lifted his head, the way his eyes, fathomless golden green, so intense, had looked into mine.

I knew that it was only another form of intimidation, of manipulation. He thought me a loose woman because of my divorce, as everyone else did. Perhaps he wondered if I would trade my body for his silence.

I looked once more into the mirror. I did not understand it. In comparison to Christine Daae, the woman who had first captivated him, I was sadly lacking. I was not delicate, ethereal, virginal, or a ravishing, piquant beauty who captured the interest of every man in the room. I had been told that I was attractive in a intelligent way, and I knew that I had reached the age of thirty with only slight laugh lines about my eyes and still maintained the firm curves of my face and body, but I did not inspire the protective desire that Christine had in men, including Erik and Raoul.

But perhaps having me would be vengenance against the child who had chosen another. I had no doubt, that if Erik demanded a higher price for keeping me away from Armand and protecting my life here at the Opera, that it would be Christine he would picture as he took me.

The terrified part of me feared, that even if I gave myself willingly to him, it would still be her name he would cry out.

With that sobering thought to keep my resistance strong, I folded the shirts neatly and set them upon my vanity chair, turned down the lamp till the room was dark, and retired to bed.

The next morning and afternoon flew by. I repaired Carlotta's dress, cutting off the swatch of fabric stained with my blood and adding a flounce to disguise the added material. When I presented it to her for her approval, and her eyes caught the black stitches laced through my finger, she was exceedingly amiable.  _Serves her well to remember that incident._

The last adjustments were made to the ballet ensembles, and I rushed from each chorus member to another to schedule their final fitting, a notepad in my hand, a pencil behind my ear. All the costumes were then dispersed amongst the cast for another dress rehearsal, temporary pins holding the unfinished pieces together, with myself sitting on the floor backstage taking notes of what seemed to wear and perform well and what needed a slight adjustment.

At one point, Madame Giry appeared at my side, her hands on her hips watching her students, her shawl draped about her shoulders. I looked up at her and gave a distracted smile, then when back to my sketches.

"I meant to ask you, my dear," she began in her delicately accented voice, "how you came about the injury on your hand?" She took a moment to look at me, her face politely blank, but her eyes as always very cool.

I closed my pad, slid the pencil into my coronet and stood, brushing the dust off my black skirts and rolling down the sleeves of my white blouse. I turned to her, crossing my arms in front of my chest and rolling my eyes.

"Oh, a very silly accident, I assure you. I was hemming Carlotta's costume yesterday and she grew impatient and stamped her foot. The needle ripped my skin." I looked down at the stitches. The redness had slowly disappated and it was no longer itching quite so horribly as it had yesterday as I'd finished my work. "It seems to be healing nicely, though."

She nodded, her eyes remaining on mine. She looked away flipping her long chestnut braid over one shoulder, watching her dancers with sharp eyes. I relaxed, my shoulders drooping slightly. What was it about her that could make a thirty year old woman feel like nothing more than a stuttering school girl caught under the stairway, kissing a boy she ought not. That odd feeling of having to be on my best behavior about her had not diminished since coming here.

"I've noticed the light underneath your door at late hours, Genevieve, these last few nights. What has you burning your midnight oil?" She didn't bother to look at me as she asked.

My mind felt sluggish as I struggled for a reply. It was true that I'd been awake up until midnight or even later, trying to finish Erik's suits before I tried his patience, and with my early rising at six o'clock every morning to work more on them before I was due in the costume room at eight, I'd had a lack of sleep that was making my face drawn and my eyes ache. I'd taken to putting cool damp rags under my eyes to take down the puffiness, sneaking flesh colored creme from the makeup pallets to apply over the shadows and drinking an extra cup of coffee every morning in order to stay alert. I had believed myself to have been appearing perfectly normal to everyone. And perhaps I had, but Madame Giry seemed to have seen straight through to my deception.

"I have been reading. I'm afraid that before I came here, I'd never indulged much in the luxury of curling up with a good book and the lending library has been a favorite haunt of mine." The falsehood rolled off my tongue with ease, but I felt no better for it. What I would have given to never have to lie again!

"Well, my dear," she turned towards me and began to walk slowly away, "let us hope that all your...reading...will not begin to affect your health. You are very well liked here, Genevieve. I would hate to see you be forced to leave due to not pleasing...someone." She disappeared into the darkness of the backdrops.

I turned back to the performers with blind eyes, feeling suddenly cold inside.

That night, the late hour once again found me in my room starting the first of the trousers of the suits for Erik, who had not bothered to make an appearance since our intimate moment in the costume room over a needle and thread.

I was still dressed, but was considering changing out of my blouse and skirts to my shift when a soft knock came at the door, followed by a series of giggles. I frowned. _Who would be out wondering the corridors at this hour?_  I quickly pushed my materials under the bed and stood.

When I unlocked the doors I was surprised to see the twin faces of Jeanette and Marie, smiling with some obviously mischevious plan in their young minds.

"What in heaven's name are you  _doing?_ " I asked opening the door wider to let them in, but instead was pulled out by each arm to a girl.

Marie giggled behind her hand.

"We're going onto the roof to drink a bottle of wine and talk and gossip all night."

I stared at her, my eyes wide behind my spectacles.

" _Why?_ " I'd never heard a more hairbrained idea.

Jeanette answered. "We do it once a month, well, until the Opera closed, that is. But now that we are here once again, we're going to take the tradition back up."

"It's just a silly little thing, but we've always done it, but  _please_  don't tell Madame, she'd have our heads." Marie pleaded.

"The dancers never join us, they're too busy ninnnying about with the patrons and each other. And the singers would turn us away in a moment. Singers do not socialize with the staff. Well, except perhaps Christine, but only because she was a dear creature."

"We've no one else to join us, but since you've come, and you're so very practical and serious much of the time, we thought, "let's take dear Genevieve with us on our night and give her some fun", so there, you have to join us. To do otherwise would simply be churlish." Marie smiled widely at me, her cornflower blue eyes sparkling.

I sighed and looked into my room, at the bed, where I knew my task awaited, then at the mirror , wondering if my captor stood behind it, silently daring me to disobey him.

I tipped my nose up at my reflection. He could hardly swoop down upon me while I was with the twins and drag me back to the room to punish me for my audacity.

I looked back at them, smiling. "Let me get my cloak."

An hour later, I laid flat on back, one hand on my stomach, one over my mouth, laughing so hard tears rolled down my cheeks and into my ears. The twins, one on her stomach, her feet kicking lightly in the air, the other in the same position as I, but across from me, were giggling uncontrollably.

I was wonderously, gloriously  _drunk._  And I had never felt better. My mind felt curiously detached as if watching myself from a distance, but I could not have cared less.

Marie, Jeanette, and I had not drunk one, but  _three_  bottles of wine amongst ourselves. I had never drunk much more than a glass of wine or champagne at a time, and the incredibly warm, heavy sensation flowing through my limbs was novel, indeed.

We had sat up here, a large, discarded curtain beneath us that had been singed by the fire last year, the nightsky above us, filled with countless stars, Apollo's Lyre a towering gray presence, and talked, of all things, about our fellow inhabitants of the Opera. The girls had told me hilarious stories of the ballet girls and their numerous exploits and conquests among the patrons and stage hands. Of walking in on many lover's trysts in the various alcoves and dark corners and who the said lovers had been. I'd felt my eyes widen incredulously at many of the idenities, one of the most shocking Lisette, a particularly saucy little piece, and Monsieur Firmin.

Then as the wine had begun to flow more freely and our tongues had loosened considerably, we had taken to making fun of the mannerisms of others, particularly the ones we didn't care for. We now were reduced to hurling insults at each other, mocking the voices of them.

I rose from the curtain, swaying slightly on my feet,  _oh this was great fun_ , and kicking my skirts behind me with dramatic flourish. I put one hand in the air, a commanding gesture, and the other on my hip. I looked down at my nose at the snorting twins, and narrowed my eyes to little slits.

"You are laughing at me, why? Errrgh! No!" I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, pushing my hands down into the air. "I will not be laughed at! Get my doggy, I'm leaving! Bye-bye!" I stormed off, my hands waving , coloring the air with Italian curses.

"Carlotta!" Jeanette shrieked, standing and then falling back on her bottom.

"Oh, how I hate her!" laughed Marie.

I bent over giggling uncontrollably and collapsed into a heap of cloak and skirts, then crawled back over to them. I laid my head on the cool surface of the curtain and smiled contentedly.

The girls laughter finally subsided and they sighed softly with regret. "I suppose we need to be going," Jeanette stood,mumbling with disappointment. Marie made a sound of agreement. The girls stood, largely still able to walk with some sense of balance. They gathered up the empty bottles and turned to me. I was still blissfully unaware of the need to get up; as far as I was concerned, I could lay here all night, basking in the sensation of being unattached.

"Are you coming, Genevieve?" They began to walk away and I lifted my head to watch them.

"Yes," I laughed rolling onto my stomach and fiddling with my spectacles which I'd pushed up onto my crown. "In a moment, I need to get my bearings first." I turned tothem with an unconcerned smile. "Go ahead, I'll make my way down to my room in a moment."

They nodded, stumbling off happily, their giggles fading as they opened the door and it shut behind them.

I laid for a few moments more, staring dazedly at the stars overhead, then finally struggling to my feet. The rooftop immediately spun wildly, and I clutched at a nearby gargoyle for balance.

After the earth stopped its mad tilt, I walked slowly to the door, watching each step I took.  _One, two, three, oh!_ I nearly fell, but righted myself in time.  _Four, five, six..._

Suddenly the door seemed very far away and my stomach very close to my throat.

I fell to my knees, retching violently.

The surges in my abdomen finally stopped and I ran a hand over my mouth, my face clammy and my body trembling uncontrollably. All my hilarity of earlier left me in a rush.  _How stupid of you!_

I crawled away from the result of my excess and tried to stand, but couldn't. I fell back weakly and onto my bottom.  _I'll never make it to the door._

My stomach heaved once again and I was sick. After it was over, I laid back down, my eyes and nose running. I couldn't tell whether my tears were the natural result of being ill or crying at how very foolish I had been and how horrible I felt. The night was growing colder by the second, and in this state I'd lay out here until I caught pneumonia.  _How very stupid to die because of being drunk when you've got a death threat on your head!_ I almost laughed, but my sobs choked me and I could not find it in myself to do so. The very real danger of the ridiculous situation was not lost on me.

I closed my eyes and struggled to once more get to my knees.

I was almost immediately surrounded by strong arms and lifted up, my face buried in a warm, solid, chest. I wrapped one arm about his neck as he lifted me a little higher and then stood.

"Erik?"

"Who else?"


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Chapter 14**

I deeply regretted my indulgence later and for good reason.

As Erik carried me off the rooftop and down the stairs, I buried my face into his chest, my right hand clutching his cravat, my left curled about his shoulder. The tension thrumming through his body should have alerted me to fact that he was in a fine rage, but I was too grateful that someone,  _anyone_ , had found me before I succumbed to unconciousness and froze to death onthe roof.

Each door through which we had to pass, he kicked open savagely, juggling me in his arms, until I thought I might be ill again, but upon his coat. I whimpered into his chest and clutched him tighter as he strode down the corridor to my room. His hands had become vices, one at my ribs, one about my thighs. He burst through the door, nearly slamming my head into the frame and dropped me, none too gently upon the bed. I landed and curled into a ball, one hand over my revolving stomach, the other over my left temple, which had begun to pound with the procession of a thousand little dwarves, hammering at my skull from the inside out.

Erik went back to the door, slammed it, then snibbed the lock. The quiet sound was like a tolling bell, and even through my anguish upon the bed, I knew that my disobediance was not going to go unpunished. I stayed in my little ball, my eyes shut tightly, not wanting to see the rage and hatred on his face before he began to beat me.

I heard the heavy  _whoosh_ of fabric as his cloak landed on the floor without care. He was over my prone form on the bed in an instant, and the mattress sunk with his weight as he climbed on top of me, bracing his hands on either side of my head, his thighs widespread over my own. His body did not touch mine, but I felt the tightening of his muscles with every breath he took.

"Look at me," he growled harshly, the beauty of his voice turned to an ugly rasp. I shook my head, and curled even tighter into myself, unsure whether it was the pain or the blinding fear that drove me. I had begun to hope that this game of ours could be ended without him ever having to resort to violence, but the man above me was still a stranger, even though I felt as if the moment he had come through that mirror the first night was an age ago. Still in my weakened state from the alcohol and my subsequent illness, I began to cry quietly into my pillow, feeling like a fool.

"No! Don't sob like a stupid child. I've been patient with you so far, but you have sorely tried me this evening, my dear!" I couldn't possibly imagine a voice colder; I felt as if a hundred razor sharp knives were slashing at me. "Now, be wise and turn and look at me without sniveling like an idiot."

Beneath him, I swallowed thickly and rolled onto my back, my eyes still closed, willing my tears to stop. When I at last felt the control return over my sensibilities, I slowly opened my eyes and met his cruel gaze. His face could have been carved of stone, all the sensuality gone out of his lips, his eyes burning into mine.

For what seemed an eternity, he did not move, but stared unblinkingly at me under him. Then at last, he reached for my hands with his, capturing them, holding them tight in the black leather and pinning them above my head. I gasped as he nearly wrenched my arms out of their sockets with the savage movement. I had no time to prepare for the shock of his body lowering onto mine, pressing me deep into the mattress, the long hard length of him resting heavily upon my smaller, softer frame. I could barely draw breath without my ribs contracting painfully, and I became instantly aware again of how tall and large he was compared to me.

My traitorous side purred in feminine appreciation of his weight and solidity, and I ruthlessly quelled it. The look in his eyes was nothing but amorous.

"You directly disobeyed me. When I give you a command, you follow it. Your place was here, finishing my orders, and instead you were on the rooftop with those two stupid children, acting like a perfect simpleton."

I looked pleadingly at him, knowing that we were firmly in his territory, and in my vulnerable place beneath him, I was in no position to argue. If I did anything but beg for his mercy, he would surely find me not worth his trouble, and kill me or beat me. In that moment, when I'd looked defiantly into the mirror and chose to not meet his demands, I had made a stupid, rash decision.

"Erik, please," I whispered, barely able to draw breath, struggling not to cry, "I only wanted a rest. I've been working so hard on your suits, they're nearly done." I swallowed, and when he didn't interrupt, but continued to stare coldly, I pleaded with him. "I'll try harder, please. Give me another chance. I know I have a lot to lose."

"That is a fact that you may want to keep at the foremost of your mind the next time you choose to disobey me. I found it exceedingly tiresome to come to your aid once again." His eyes flicked to my fingers that were entangled with his. He was applying pressure to my bones to keep me still, and the stitches were throbbing mercilessly under his thumb. To my amazement, his fingers on my left hand gentled, and cradled my injured fingers softly. Would I ever understand how he could be so cruel and yet tender?

"Thank you," I whispered softly and I shifted beneath him to ease my ribs.

The instant I moved under him, his eyes suddenly changed, growing dark with an unnamed emotion. His body seemed to grow heavier and I was pressed deeper into the bed. I was unable to take my eyes away from him, as his owndrifted down to my mouth. My lips parted of their own volition and I felt my limbs grow heavy, though not with the effects of the wine. I once again felt the ache to know what I'd never received in my marriage, and all the consequences of such an action were drowned out as demons I didn't know I possesed began clamoring for attention.

His head lowered, his eyes drifting closed, and I dropped me gaze to his mouth, his lips parted, nearing mine. He was going to kiss me and I was going to let him. There was no turning back now, no use resisting.

Above me, he stilled and I heard his quiet curse. In an instant he was off me. Walking across the room, his right hand pressed to his temple covered by the mask, he stopped and braced his left hand against the frame ofthe mirror. I could see the tension in his long frame, and I was helpless to do anything. I knew what was going through his thoughts: I wasn't Christine and it was useless to pretend I was.

I stayed on the bed, my eyes not leaving him, feeling as if I was being pulled in a hundred ways at once. Fear, terror, fascination, desire were coursing through me.

Finally he straightened, his frame once again invested with that chilling elegance and aloofness. He retrieved his cloak, and swirled it, letting it settle about his shoulders before returning to the mirror.

"I suggest you undress and seek your rest. You will feel like death in the morning. And you have much still to do." And he was gone through the mirror in an instant.

He hadn't even looked at me.

I did feel like death in the morning, and when I arrived at the costume room late, Jeanette and Marie look shamefaced and haggard as well. Madame Lefevre sat in her chair, not raising her head to acknowledge me, but clucking with disapproval.

Three days went by and I did not see Erik. On Saturday morning when I laid the four completed suits before the mirror and waited, he did not appear.

When I returned to my room that night after my duties for the day were done. The suits were gone. Lying in their place was a note.

_I will inform you when next I am in need of your services. I suggest that you keep your silence and I shall keep mine. Do not forget that hell hath now wrath like a lover...or husband...scorned._

_I remain, ever your protector and keeper._

_Erik_

I refolded the note slowly and slipped back into the envelope. I met my eyes in the mirror and couldn't ignore the tears forming in them.

"I won't forget."


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**Chapter 15**

The days passed, one into another.

Each morning was filled with sitting hours in the costume room, adding the detail work onto each garment for Le Baudelaire. Tiny jewels, seed pearls, spangles, embroidery; it was painstakingly intricate work and our fingers grew red and swollen with constant pricking with the needles, our eyes dry and sore from staringso intently to ensure each stitch was perfect.

Each afternoon Madame Lefevre, Jeanette, Marie and I were at dress rehearsals, an endless process of repetition for the cast: an equally endless process of repairing ripped hems, torn flounces, robes that had been stretched too far over the wrong size gentlemen donning them. There were also numerous costume changes, and the rushing to be in the next scene on time caused several of the more delicate pieces to become ripped in various places. One gown I knew I had pieced the bodice back together at least on five different occasions.

Each evening, I spent reading in my room, curled upon my bed with the lamp lit well or visiting with Madame Lefevre, who was coaching me to take her place after she retired. I had my own ideas of how I believed the costuming department of the Opera Populaire could better function, and she listened quietly and with approval to many of my suggestions.

Erik had vanished. No visits, no dictorial letters, no accidental meetings upon the rooftop where I frequented when my little room grew too small and oppresive.

I could not interpret his absence. That moment on my daybed when he had come perilously close to kissing me had been the last time I'd seen him.

I had begun to believe that he had grown tired of his sport with me, and perhaps had found some other avenue to procure his demands.

The fact that I did not know whether I was relieved or disappointed was a highly disturbing one.

The threat of the new patrons quickly dissapated: Monsieurs Vourne and Fierre were barons and had not moved in the same circles as Armand and I.

My relationship with the other staff and cast and even managers of the Opera settled into familairity. Even Madame Giry had become more approachable as I'd proven myself as a capable woman who would not shy away from difficult tasks. Carlotta still remained as haughty as ever, but I did not worry it was any fault of mine: she treated everyone with contempt.

I still did not feel at ease enough to wear my hair out of the severe chignons or to discard my spectacles. They had become no longer a disguise to distract from my appearance, but part of my identity at the Opera. To  _not_  wear them everyday would draw too much unwanted attention.

In no time at all, a week and a half had passed since my drunken mistake upon the rooftop and the morning of the Opening Night of Le Baudelaire and indeed the Opera Populaire itself, dawned clear and bright. There were to be no rehearsals: the stage was completely set and prepared, each scene's props, backdrops, and costumes arranged in waiting in the cavernous backstage area. The balconies, rafters, and catwalks were silent, and dark.

The Grand Foyer was brightly lit and the marble floors, columns, and stairs gleamed back shades of gold, ivory, and black. Flowers filled every urn. The golden statuaries were buffed to their highest finish.

In the auditorium itself, heavy silence laid siege. Each seat had been cleared of every speck of dust. All the brass and golden statuaries had were glowingthere as well. Each private box had been swept, the curtains hung with nary a wrinkle, and the seats laid with fresh, fluffed cushions.

With absolutely everything done and no tasks remaining, my morning and afternoon stretched before me. The thought of staying in my room, reading or staring at the mirror in silent reproach seemed a disheartening thought. I had taken an inventory of my meager wardrobe earlier in the week and I was inadequately prepared for winter, which was fast approaching, autumn already in its prime. The thought of simply spending an afternoon shopping, without having to sketch in my mind what I would make, but buying some garmentsfrom ashop directseemed a fine idea. After Le Baudelaire opened tonight and the weekend passed, we would be starting on the next opera's costumes. These three days of rest would be ruined if I was sewing my own winter wardrobe; purchasing a reasonably priced one seemed much more appealing. I had been saving my wages, not being forced to spend them on someone else, and the two weeks worth of pay would be enough to supply a modest selection of winter garments.

So the late morning found me stolling the shopping district of Paris, frequenting the less pricey modistes. In my bag clutched in my left hand, folded and wrapped neatly in band boxes were two wool gowns, one a soft lavender gray, the other a dusky apricot, a new black cloak with a warm, thick hood, and some thicker undergarments. Packaged the same way in the bag held in my right hand were two new heavier linen blouses, a full skirt of copper taffeta, and another skirt of dark green velvet. All the garments had been supplied by economical modistes, simply but well made, no frills or furbelows. An over abundance of lace, flounces, and bows, though the current rage, had never been my choice of clothing. Even when married and a Comtess of the highest social standing, subtle touches had always been my preference.

One more gown, perhaps a high collared one for especially cold days was all I had left on my list. I had just found the modiste Jeanette had referred to me as a particularly talented and reasonable one when the lady in question herself came trapising up the sidewalk with her twin in tow, both of the girls' arms flung with bags. We spotted each other and grinned.

An hour later, the three of us had enjoyed a simple lunch at an outdoor cafe, comparing our purchases and what was left to buy, when Marie's eyes widened and her voice lowered.

"Oooh, I don't believe I've ever seen such a  _delicious_  man before!" She was goggling at a carriage that had stopped behind us across the street, her mouth formed into an appreciative smile. Jeanette leaned over to better see about myself, as I was facing the cafe. Her own eyes lit and she grinned coyly.

"I do believe you're right. He's positively  _divine_!"

I sighed, placing my fork down on the plate. "You two are going to land yourselves in a heap of trouble, one day, do you know that?" I tipped Marie's mouth closed with my fingertips and brought Jeanette's brazen eyes to face mine. "You two don't want to develop a reputation about the Opera like Lisette or Jammes has, do you? You'll have every man in the place knocking down your door!" I picked my fork back up, feeling every inch the thirty years that I was. Hadn't my own mother had this same conversation with me once, as a flirtatious eighteen year old.

"Oh, Genevieve, you have to look at him, though. Just turn around and take a peek!"

"No, girls! It's ill-mannered to stare at gentlemen,  _anyone_ , for that matter."

"Oh, just turn about and look! He's not even facing us. He's too wrapped up in that little piece," Marie sneered scornfully.

I sighed plunking my fork down with an exasperated sound. I knew they wouldn't let me be until I looked.

I twisted slightly in my seat and peeked at the very amorous, well dressed couple in front of a jewelry store, the man pointing a white gloved hand to a large, emerald necklace. The woman, a stunningly beautiful redhead with a flawless complexion and large, pleading eyes, grasped the man's hand tightly, nodding. The man, still gazing at the elegant necklace, laughed softly and stroked the lady's cheek with tenderness. She leaned into his hand, her eyes soft and dewy.

"Girls, I think  _that_ is a lost cause. He's obviously very much in love with that gorgeous redhead." I turned to look at them with a helpless shrug, then turned back to the happy couple, feeling a little envious of the affection running between them. The man finally faced the woman.

_Oh, God._

It was Armand.

I stood, nearly knocking the little cafe table over, sending the water glasses spilling liquid over the table cloth. The girls exclaimed in shock as I searched for the quickest escape.

"Genevieve! Whatever is the ...?"

"I have to go! I'm sorry!" I backed away from the table and the suprised looks on the twins's faces. Then I ran.

I ran until my lungs ached and I could no longer squeeze through the throngs of shoppers without striking or knocking someone to the ground. Once the way was clear again, I hurried down a back alley, a short cut to the Opera. I ran with my skirts and cloak billowing out behind me, my hair coming out of its moorings and tumbling to my shoulders. I didn't dare stop to think, to consider what I had seen. I could only run as fast as I could, simply wanting to get to the theatre where I could be alone. It wasn't terror that consumed me or fear that made me want to hide as far away as I could. But something even more horrific.

The entrance to the stables of the Opera opened before me and I raced down into the winding stone corridor that came out to the stalls and common area for saddling and grooming the horses and continued on, my breathing a harsh, horrible sound echoing in the cavernous area. I ran until I came to another long, doorless stone corridor that itself lead to the entrance into the backstage area. But as I began to rush down it, the flat, unrelieved stone walls flashing by, I tripped over a rut in the cobbled floor and fell hard to my knees, my palms landing flat and skidding over the rough rock. I cried out in pain, the skin of my hands coming off on the stone, and my knees throbbing furiously.

I collapsed onto the wall, my hair hanging in my face, no longer able to control my sobs.

_It had been me._

That was the only thought that ran through my mind, over and over again, mocking me.

_It had only been me._

The affection and gentleness Armand had touched the red haired woman with was a cruel comparison to the brutal and violent way he had treated me throughout our marriage. There had never been a time he had ever handled me with any kind of tenderness, unless it was the calm before the storm broke and he flew into a rage. His eyes had never looked at me like that, warm and soft,  _loving_. Coldness, calculation, and a disgusted contempt: those emotions had never strayed far from his eyes when concerning anything with me.

It hurt,  _oh, god,_ it hurt!

What had I ever done to earn such brutality and cruelty from him? All the nights he would leave me lying in our bed, bloodied and bruised from his need to hurt me and then to debase, dehumanize me by forcing himself on me again and again. All those nights, I would stare at the ceiling, my eyes often swelling shut, blood in my mouth and the most excruiating pain inside of me and believe that I had married a monster, a man who was simply cruel because he simply was and believed it his right to be and because it aroused him. But he wasn't. Because I was the only one he had reserved that treatment for.

As I sagged against the wall and held my bleeding palms to my chest staining the white blouse I wore under my walking dress jacket, I cried until my ragged sobs echoed off the stone corridor.

Finally, when I couldn't weep anymore, and my breathing was a hoarse, strained whimper in my throat, I stood on trembling legs. I noticed for the first time that my purchases were not with me: I had left them with Jeanette and Marie.

I looked about me pushing my heavy mass of hair behind my shoulders. The corridor was empty, and dark, illuminated only by a globe gas lamp flickering against the wall. I walked a short ways down the hall, but didn't see any recognizable signs of where I was. The comforting sounds of horses stamping in their stalls had faded along my headlong flight and I strained to hear them, but couldn't. The passage way behind me would bring me to the backstage area, I was sure. I could move quietly through the still, dark auditorium until I made it to my room and lay down. My head was throbbing horribly and I wanted nothing more than to fall into a dreamless sleep until the performance that night.

Deciding to go through the backstage area and follow that path up to my room, I turned to begin down the dark stone halls.

Strong hands grabbed me and I was pressed to the cold damp wall.

In front of me stood Erik, clad in an elegant black evening suit, the black brocade waistcoat almost non-discernable across his chest, his stiff black cravat folded and pinned rakishly, just the tips of the lapels of his crisp white shirt visible, the voluminous cloak draped over his shoulders, the white half mask over the right side of his dark angel's face, his full sensual mouth formed into a cold smile, his golden green eyes meeting mine.

I caught my breath at the sight of him and felt my instant reaction skate down my spine: a complex  _frisson_ of fear, annoyance, reluctant desire, and a primal thrill.

He looked down at the stain of blood on my chest and I almost caught a fleeting glimpse of alarm, but it faded into the depths of his eyes too quickly to know if it was real or not.

He took my hands in his and turned them to look at my palms, my hands small in his large leather clad ones. They were oozing blood and an angry red.

"You ought to take more care when running through my Opera House, Genevieve." He reached into the folds of his cloak and retrieved a white hankerchief. He leaned me into the wall, and began gently wiping away the blood and dirt with the soft fabric.

I only watched, my tongue awkward in my mouth. I had not seen him in almost two weeks and it had seemed he had dismissed me as worthwhile to him. But now he stood before me, his hand holding mine as he tenderly cleaned my wounds, and I couldn't help but rememember that afternoon in the costume room when he tended my hurts.

Those images clashed alarmingly with the cold, manipulative man who had used me for his own purposes, bruised me with his vice like grip, pressed me to him just to let me feel his strength and his power over me. How could they possibly be the same man, and which one was the true Erik. He was an intoxicating mystery. I still could not decide whether I was relieved or disappointed that he had chosen to grace me with hisintriguing presence.

He finished cleaning my hands, and folded the cloth over the blood stained section and slipped it back into his cloak.

Then he came closer and I barely resisted the urge to close my eyes and bow my head into his embrace.

He tipped my face up to his gaze and touched my cheek, following the tracks of my tears with his fingers.

"You've been crying, my dear." He whispered it against my forehead as he bent to place a soft kiss there. I nearly moaned softly at the gentle brush of his lips. "Who has you so distraught?"

I swallowed thickly, and lowered my eyes, staring at his cravat pin.

"I saw Armand, he was with another woman." I whispered.

He stiffened above me, and my head snapped up. His eyes had turned from heated to cold and calculating in an instant.

"And did he see you?" His question was lethal and low.

"No," I said, anger beginning to enter my voice.  _His game was not over, merely on hold._

"If he had seen me, I would most likely be dead by now or very shortly to become that way." I could see how it would have been. Armand would have caught sight of me, his eyes would have narrowed, his face contort into hard lines of rage at the sight of his former wife, alive and living comfortably,  _how dare she_ , and he would have sent his mistress to the carriage to wait. I would not have gotten far: he moved with ruthless speed when angered. He then would have caught me, and towed me to his home, all the while keeping a smile on his face, making it seem everything was well. Once there he would beat metill the very edge of conciousness then take me until I couldn't move, then take the pistol he carried in his waistcoat at all times and end it. There would be no scandal, no trial. He was the Comte de Bouvieux and held a powerful position in the government and social circles. No one would question his right to dispose of a inconvenience to his career and standing.

Erik pushed me into the wall, his body flush against my own. He stroked a hand down my temple and then brushed a curl behind my ear, his fingers lingering over the sensitive skin of my earlobe.

"How fortunate for both you and I as I still require..."

"If you come this way, messieurs, I'll show you our stables. We use horses in a number of our productions."

Erik and I both stared down the hall. The voice of Monsieur Andre was rapidly approaching.

Erik's expression turned feral, his eyes dangerously blazing, his teeth bared in a snarl. He rounded on me, one hand wrapping about my throat, his thumb pressed to my windpipe. He was against me in a moment, but no longer with intimidation in mind. For the first time, I truly feared he would kill me.

"If you planned this, you little wench..." he gritted, his chest rising and falling harshly in rage.

"No!" I wheezed, my hands clawing at his wrist.

"As our patrons, you'll be interested to know we use only the finest grains."

They were approaching closer and closer. The corridor had no doors. If they came upon Erik, who was a wanted man, he would kill at least one of them, and be overpowered by the other three. He would hang without a trial, his blood was wanted too badly.

I thought of him, swinging at the end of a rope, his neck broken, his eyes dead, his face an eternal mask of pain, and couldn't bear the thought.

With all the strength I could I reversed our positions, slamming him against the wall. Shocked, his hand released my throat. A crazed expression of pain and disbelief crossed his face that I would betray him.

I proved him wrong, by reaching up, bringing his head down to mine, pressing my body tightly against his, and using my hair to hide his mask. I pulled his mouth to mine and took his lips in a passionate, hungry kiss.


End file.
